


I've Got Soul But I'm Not a Soldier

by Smokeybubble



Series: My Knees Are Bruised (From Kneeling To You) [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Curses, Friendship, Gen, God Bless Stanley Uris, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Maggie Tozier's A+ Parenting, Magic, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Pre-Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Rape/Non-con Elements, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie Tozier Needs a Hug, Richie does not have a good time in this story, Secrets, The Losers just want to help, Violence, no beta we die like men, things do get better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2020-10-11 22:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 120,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20553548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smokeybubble/pseuds/Smokeybubble
Summary: Richie Tozier has one hell of a birthmark.Or, the obedience curse fic that literally no one asked for.





	1. Prologue - 1978: The Scar

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, it's been awhile since I posted a story on here. I just love the Losers so dang much, I couldn't help myself.
> 
> Anyway, I've been sitting on this story for a few months, and post-Chapter Two seemed to be as good of a time as any to throw this up here. Story uses elements from both the movie and the book, but I've tried to make it so that if you haven't read the book, you're not missing too much, and if you have read the book, you're not bored by repetition. Updates will be on Sundays! 
> 
> Mind the tags kids, this story is gonna get rough in spots. I promise the ending is happy though. The first couple chapters are laying the groundwork, and then we'll get into the real storyline starting in Chapter 3. 
> 
> Title comes from The Killers song All These Things That I've Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie knew, deep in her heart, that mothering was in her nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, it's been awhile since I posted a story on here. I just love the Losers so dang much, I couldn't help myself.
> 
> Anyway, I've been sitting on this story for a few months, and post-Chapter Two seemed to be as good of a time as any to throw this up here. Story uses elements from both the movie and the book, but I've tried to make it so that if you haven't read the book, you're not missing too much, and if you have read the book, you're not bored by repetition. Updates will be on Sundays! 
> 
> Mind the tags kids, this story is gonna get rough in spots. I promise the ending is happy though. The first couple chapters are laying the groundwork, and then we'll get into the real storyline starting in Chapter 3. 
> 
> Title comes from The Killers song All These Things That I've Done

Richie Tozier has one hell of a birthmark.

It’s not a birthmark, exactly, because didn’t have it when he was born. But he’s had it for as long as he can remember, which is close enough. And it is easier to think of it as a birthmark. Better a birthmark than a brand.

Richie can’t remember getting his birthmark because he was only three at the time. His father, Wentworth, can barely remember it either. Child-rearing, by unspoken agreement, was always Maggie Tozier’s responsibility. Wentworth washed his hands of the whole matter before Maggie was even six weeks pregnant. He was not a romantic man, and wanted nothing to do with the business of raising sticky-fingered, unpredictable children. But Maggie knew, deep in her heart, that mothering was in her nature. She would raise the child, with or without her husband. 

So it is Maggie Tozier where the whole business of the brand — birthmark — began, with the simple truth that Maggie Tozier thought she wanted a child. Then, too late, she realized she did not.

It took her three years to admit this. A week following Richie’s third birthday, after sending Richie into the backyard, Maggie shut the sliding door and threw herself into a seat at the kitchen table. She put her head in her hands. “I can’t do it, Wentworth,” she said into her palms.

Wentworth lowered his newspaper. He looked over the figure of his wife, posed in a dramatic expression of defeat, and took a sip of his coffee before raising the newspaper once again. 

“I always wanted children,” Maggie continued. She shook her head, not enough to loosen her hair from its tight, curled style, but enough for Went to understand the depth of her despair. When Wentworth didn’t reply, she put a hand over his wrist and forced him to put down the paper. “I could be a truly wonderful mother, I  _ know _ it, Went. But Richie is just so… so…”

“High-maintenance?” Wenthworth said. He didn’t fold his newspaper, but he did set it to the side with a measure of resignation. Maggie was on the warpath, and she wouldn’t leave him in peace until she’d had her say.

“Annoying!” Maggie said, and burst into tears. “I can’t stand it! He’s always running off, or showing me stupid little drawings, or interrupting me, or asking me endless, pointless questions.”

“That’s how all children act, dear.”

Maggie sobbed into her hands. “It’s awful! I don’t have a moment to myself! Why couldn’t we have had a nice, quiet girl? It’s always ‘ _ Mom, look at this! _ ’ or ‘ _ Mom, watch me! _ ’ or ‘ _ Mom, I’m going to track dirt all over the fucking house and you’re going to have to clean it up! _ ’” Her breath hitched, and when Wentworth patted her hand, she cried harder. “I know I could be a good parent! With a normal child. Why is God punishing me?”

Wentworth sighed and, finally, folded up his newspaper. Maggie needed more than a sympathetic ear this morning, it seemed. “Well, we can’t bring him in for a refund,” he told her. A tapping at the back door drew their attention. Three-year-old Richie stood outside, dark curls askew, grinning a gap-toothed smile and holding up a large stick, for whatever reason. He babbled something unintelligible through the glass, and his parents smiled weakly at him. Wentworth made a shooing motion and Richie skipped away, waving his stick in the air.

“You see?” Maggie demanded. “I can’t even have one conversation without him interrupting.”

“Maggie—” Wentworth said. He tried to take her hand, but she pulled away.

“No,” she said, once again beginning to cry. “I don’t know what to do, Went. I’m going crazy.”

“Be reasonable, dear. Maybe you just need to get a babysitter for him. Spend some time with yourself.”

Maggie glared at him, dabbing at her eyes so that her makeup would stay in place. “We tried that, Wentworth! Don’t you remember?”

Wentworth did not.

“We had Abby, and then when she quit, we took on Hadley,” Maggie reminded him.

Wentworth looked at her blankly.

“One was from up the street. The other was a recommendation from one of the girls at my book club.”

“Hm,” Wentworth said. “And why didn’t they work out?”

“Because it didn’t get rid of the problem!” Maggie said. “Two hours here and there are all very well and good, but that’s not a substitute for a quiet home. A clean home, without new stains on the carpet every three days. It’s not a substitute for my life, Went! Do you know, I can’t walk around my own house anymore? I have to hide out in our bedroom if I want any peace.”

Wentworth thought that this was a bit of an overstatement — they’d invented child- proof gates for a reason hadn’t they? — but kept his mouth shut. “You could give him up for adoption,” he said instead.

Maggie raised her head from her hands just long enough to frown at him. “And have the whole neighborhood know what I did? The  _ looks _ we would get!”

Wentworth sighed. He took a long drink of coffee, set his mug down, and drummed his fingers on the table.

Maggie watched him, her hands clasped to her chest.

“Alright,” Wentworth said at last. “Alright. I may have an idea.” His voice was heavy, but Maggie didn’t seem to notice. She beamed with delight, grabbing Wentworth’s hand and peppering his knuckles with light, smacking kisses.

“What is it?” she asked breathlessly. “Oh thank you, Went, I knew you would think of something.”

Wentworth said, “you remember my sister? She lives out in Nebraska.”

Maggie nodded.

“Well,” Wentworth said, “she has the Gift. Like my mother.”

“Oh!” Maggie looked surprised, then concerned. “I forgot about that. It skipped you though, right? I’d hate for people to start thinking that we’re mixed up in some sort of freakish cult activity. Remember when everyone found out that Elfrida Marsh—”

“It skipped me,” Went interrupted. “Besides, you know I don’t hold to any sort of magical nonsense. It’s such an unreliable practice. But my sister, she may be able to help us. She could whip something up to make Richie a bit more… manageable.”

Maggie lit up with excitement. She squeezed Wentworth’s hand. “That’s a brilliant idea,” she said. “Let’s call her! Let’s call her right now!”

“Well, hold on now,” Wentworth said. He allowed Maggie to lace their fingers together, though his mouth was turned down at the corners. “She might need some persuading. Behavioral magic in general is rather frowned-upon, and especially when performed on a child.”

“That’s alright,” Maggie said. “You’ll be able to convince her, won’t you?”

“I think so. You go have a lie-down, dear, and I’ll take care of it.”

And so he took care of it. With a bit of effort. Though Jaqueline Tozier refused to perform such magic herself, she agreed to tell Wentworth the procedure for a home-casting. The ingredient list was extensive — the femur of a cat being the most difficult (and ultimately the most disgusting) to get their hands on — but in five days, the Toziers were ready. Maggie gave Richie an extra large dose of Benadryl that knocked him out cold, and when he woke up several hours later in his bed, he had a shiny, new symbol burned into the skin over his heart.

~

Maggie Tozier was certain that she had made the best choice of her life. There was no more dirt all over her floors. No more rapid fire questions when she was trying to talk on the phone. No more grubby hands reaching for her face or leaving smudges on the hem of her skirt. Overnight, Richie transformed into the picture of a well-behaved child.

There were adjustments to be made, of course. Maggie and Wentworth had to watch what they said much more carefully. There was the memorable incident, a few months after the “procedure,” as Maggie liked to call it, when she snapped at Richie for eating too messily at dinner. Richie wandered around the house for the next two days without eating anything, until Maggie realized her mistake and corrected it. 

But the occasional mishap aside, things went along smoothly in the Tozier household. The burn healed quickly, scabbing over and then scarring when the scabs fell away. Soon, Richie couldn’t remember a time when he had been without the brand. He still tried to throw a tantrum now and then, when Maggie’s rules became too much for him, but those were easily quelled. Maggie simply told him to stop, and Richie would stop, whether or not he wanted to. It was, Maggie thought, a true gift that she had bestowed upon her son. A beautiful gift. 

And it was a gift to herself, of course. Who wouldn’t want a perfectly obedient child?

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So I came back and updated this chapter, even though it's only been a little bit since I posted it originally, but I found a more updated version so my bad).
> 
> If you liked it, if you didn't, if you have comments or questions or just want to chat, hit me up in the reviews! I love hearing feedback, it is my lifeblood <3


	2. Part Two - 1988: The Birthday Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan is too fucking smart for his own good.

It was Stanley fucking Uris — quiet, intelligent, observant Stan — who was the first to figure it out.

Richie was good at keeping secrets. The best, really, if someone ordered him to keep his mouth shut about it, and his mother had certainly ordered him to keep his mouth shut.

“The  _ things _ people would say about us, Richard,” she’d told him, her eyes wide and dark with the imagined horror of gossip. “The neighbors would  _ never _ look at us the same. You know how most people feel about magic.” She said ‘magic’ as though it was a bad word, rolling her mouth carefully around the sounds in case they broke against her teeth. “Your friends would think you’re a freak,” she told him. She had taken Richie’s hand, looking into his eyes through his new, coke-bottle glasses that he’d gotten only the week before. “Which is why you must never tell anyone about your gift. Ever.”

Richie had snapped to attention, feeling the weight of a new command settle onto his chest and shoulders. “Yes, Mom,” he’d said, trying not to sound sullen, and she’d smiled brightly at him before kissing his cheek and ordering him to play in his room for the rest of the day.

That had been seven years ago, before Richie had good friends to speak of. But now, with Bill Denbrough’s thirteenth birthday in just two days, Richie had not one good friend, but  _ three _ , and he still had no idea why these losers liked hanging around with an even bigger loser like him.

First, there was Bill. Taller than the rest of them (and probably more handsome, though Richie would never tell him that out loud), with neatly combed, blazing red hair and a calm strength about him, despite his stutter. Bill had a little brother, Georgie, who Bill doted on like the kid had hung the moon. Richie thought that maybe that was why he’d taken such an immediate liking to Bill — he’d almost never heard Bill order Georgie around, and even when he did, it was said with such big-brother exasperation that it didn’t seem to matter. When Richie looked at Bill, he felt safe in a way that he had never felt around anyone else, not even his parents.

_ (especially not his parents) _

Then there was Eddie Kasprak, who, despite his asthma and the fucking pharmacy he carried around in his two — two! — fanny packs, was the best guy Richie knew for getting his chucks with. Eddie was short and skinny, like someone had run out of materials during his construction. Richie loved resting his elbow on the top of Eddie’s head like Eddie was his own personal armrest, just to make the kid light off like a firecracker. Eddie had large, dark eyes, and a thin, pixie-like face, and sometimes Richie caught himself staring at Eddie, wondering how any one kid could look so much like a baby faun. He couldn’t let Eddie catch him at it, of course, because Eddie had a fuse that was as short as he was. Yet for all of Eddie’s exasperation with Richie’s endless nicknames and crude jokes, Eddie never told Richie to fuck off. It made Richie want to cross his eyes in confusion.

Finally, there was Stan Uris. Stanley fucking Uris, with his yarmulke perched on top of his tight, blond curls. With his ever-present bird books and his quick, knowing eyes. With his prim, neatly tucked button-up shirts and his pressed pants, as though he was already an old man and simply going through middle school for kicks. Stanley fucking Uris.

It was Stan who Richie went with on Thursday to pick up supplies for Bill’s birthday. They rode their bikes over to the Costello Avenue Market after school, their saved change jingling in their pockets.

“Do you think we should try to carry a cake home?” Stan asked, as they leaned their bikes up in the alley beside the store. “Or should we just get ice cream and hope it doesn’t melt before we get it back?”

“Cake,” Richie said immediately. “Are you kidding me, Stan-my-man? It’s not a proper birthday without cake!”

“Which is stupid,” Stan complained. They came out of the alley, and the lazy traffic passing by on Costello Avenue sent a warm wind over their faces. “Ice cream is better than cake anyway. Just because tradition says cake is the designated birthday dessert-”

Richie clapped a hand to his forehead in exaggerated shock. “Stanley, surely you — the most  _ tra _ -ditional of Jewish boys — aren’t saying this. That’s siding with the devil, you know, going against tradition and all.”

Stan just rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Richie,” he said.

Richie’s mouth snapped closed. He swallowed against the familiar, burning twinge that always accompanied a direct command, and followed Stan into Costello’s. Luckily, Stan was already heading for the display of cakes at the back of the store, and didn’t notice Richie’s sudden silence. Richie wound his way through the shelves, trailing behind Stan and stopping every now and then to peer out of the front windows at the bright sunshine outside.

“What about that one?” Stan asked, pointing to a small, chocolate cake with fluted icing. “Bill likes chocolate.”

Richie reached the counter and shrugged. He hated it when people ordered him to be quiet. Especially when they did it on accident. His parents told him to shut up all the time, but at least they  _ knew _ he couldn’t talk or answer when they asked him a question. With other people, Richie just felt like an idiot, trying to mime his way through a conversation.

Stan was still peering at the cakes. “Or maybe that one would be better,” he said. “The one on the bottom shelf, with the strawberries?”

The cake in question was beautifully frosted and within their limited budget, so Richie nodded. 

Stan glanced at him. “Yeah? You like that one best?”

Richie nodded again, hoping Stan would hurry up before the silence grew strange, or else demand Richie tell his opinion so Richie could talk again. It wouldn’t take much; the curse was pretty liberal with interpretations, and Richie was an expert at finding loopholes in what people said.

Stan wasn’t making it easy though. “I don’t know,” he said, tapping his chin and staring down at the cakes. “Do you know if Bill likes strawberries? I can’t remember if I’ve seen him eat them before.”

Richie wanted to shake him. He knew for a fact that Bill did like strawberries, not that it was doing him any good. The pause was getting awkward. Normally Bill or Eddie was around, talking with Stan and drawing attention away from Richie’s silences. 

Stan was starting to pick up on Richie’s strange mood. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Richie. “What’s with you?” he asked. “Are you sulking or something?”

Richie shook his head and shrugged again, but was saved as the counter attendant appeared in that moment and asked the boys what she could help them with.

“We’re getting a cake for our friend’s birthday,” Stan explained, after a last look at Richie. 

“How nice!” the attendant said. She was three or four years older, with long brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She smiled at them. Richie grinned back, though Stan’s smile was slightly more subdued. “Just tell me which one you want and I’ll box it up for you.”

The tightness in Richie’s throat eased at once. Thank God. “The one with strawberries, please. On the bottom,” Richie said. He pointed at it, and the attendant slid the cake out from the display and carried it away to be packaged. “Thank-ee kindly, deah!” Richie called, in his best Southern twang. He chuckled — a brief, cursed silence was not unusual, and so he was not unduly bothered by it — and turned to Stan. “Bill’s gonna love it,” he said. “He likes strawberries.”

Stan was frowning at him.

“What?” Richie asked.

“Nothing,” Stan said, after a moment. But his lips were pursed, and Richie didn’t like that expression. That was Stan’s dissatisfied expression, when he knew something was off but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Frantically, Richie rewound the last few minutes in his head. Had he been too obvious? Not that a silence in itself should be all that strange. Stan told Richie to shut up all the time. Eddie and Bill were usually with them, so the silence wasn’t as noticeable. Even so…

But Stan only shook his head and said “you’re so weird sometimes, Trashmouth.”

Richie was relieved. “But that’s why you love me,” he said, plastering his shit-eating grin back on his face.

“Yeah, whatever.”

The attendant returned with their cake, they paid, then Stan put the cake on the back of his bike and they pedalled slowly and carefully to Stan’s house, where they put the cake in the refrigerator so it would be safe until Saturday. Richie thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t. It was barely the beginning. 

** **

~

** **

Afterwards, Richie decided the whole thing could be blamed on Coach Bleider, because it was the next day, on Friday, that Coach Bleider decided they should run laps for P.E. class. More specifically, he decided that  _ Richie _ should run laps.

It was after the third interruption of Bleider’s explanation of Kickball (although Richie felt it was very impressive that he hadn’t interrupted more. A name like ‘Kickball’ was just begging to be exploited for testicle-related jokes) that Coach Bleider finally lost his temper. He jabbed a finger at Richie. “Tozier. Laps. Now. If you have the energy to talk that much, you have the energy to run until I tell you to stop.”

The force of his words had Richie jumping to his feet before Bleider had finished talking. Their class was outside, enjoying some of the last warm days of early autumn before the cold set in for the season. Since P.E. classes were held jointly between the 7th and 8th graders, both Stan and Eddie were in the class with Richie. But Eddie had a note from his mother telling the school that he was “not to participate in outdoor activities due to his grass allergies”, and so only Stan was there to watch as Richie started across the field with Coach Bleider glaring holes into the back of his T-shirt.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. Richie ran at a leisurely pace, more of a slow jog than anything, and watched the other kids forming up kickball teams in the middle of the field.  _ Kickball _ . Richie snickered to himself, even as the persistent itching of compulsion kept his feet pounding on the soft grass. He shook out his arms and slowed to a lazy lope. Coach Bleider hadn’t specified how fast Richie had to run. 

He started on his second lap. He was running back towards the other kids now, and he could see Stan’s tow-headed profile lined up to the side while Coach Bleider assigned their positions.

“Short stop,” Coach Bleider said, when he got to Stan.

Richie had never been good at controlling his mouth. He knew it, his friends knew it, hell, pretty much everyone who’d ever met Richie knew it. Sometimes his mouth just acted without his permission. On occasion, Richie wondered if his mouth ran away with him because it was trying to spit out everything it needed to say before the next person told him to shut up. The words were out before he could stop them. “Good choice, Coach!” he said as he jogged past. “I know another thing Stan-the-man’s got that’s short too.”

Coach Bleider whirled on him like a small dog, all pent up rage and yapping aggression. “You call that running, Tozier?” he barked. “Clearly you’re not trying hard enough, if you can take breaks to be a smart alec. Step it up! I’ll have you sprinting these laps if it teaches you to watch your mouth.”

A hook pulled in Richie’s gut as the curse took note of the new orders. He flashed a tight smile and snapped a tighter salute to Bleider. His legs pumped, carrying him into the next curve. A burning itch grew under his skin and he ran faster, wondering how fast until the curse was satisfied that he was following Coach Bleider’s orders.

It seemed the curse was taking Bleider’s orders very literally. Richie was nearly sprinting by the time the burning in his skin began to ease. That was what he hated most about the curse: it didn’t help him follow directions, only punished him until he couldn’t bear not to.

So Richie ran. The first few innings of kickball were played out in the middle of the field, and Richie couldn’t stop. He ran as his lungs began to burn and his heart swelled in his chest. Richie was active — as most 12-year-olds are — but after holding a dead sprint for seven laps of the wide, green field, Richie could feel the strain in his legs and chest. How long would Bleider make him run for? The autumn sun, which had been so pleasantly mild when they first came outside, now seemed oppressively hot. Richie snuck a glance at Bleider as he entered his ninth lap, but Bleider wasn’t paying him any attention. He was in the infield, demonstrating the best ways to catch a bunted ball.

Richie was breathing heavy and fast. His lungs screamed. He slowed, gulping air, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his sweaty nose. He took a few jogging steps, and then the curse burst beneath his skin. Richie almost tripped with the strength of it, with the sudden, burning pain. He sped up again, swearing internally at Bleider, at his parents for causing this whole thing in the first place.

( _ A prickle started just under his skin at that. “Don’t be rude to your parents,” Maggie had told him sternly. “You love us and you will respect us.” _

_ _ _ He stopped his silent monologue, focusing instead on the bright blue sky, and the prickle died away. _ )

Richie lost track of the number of laps he ran. Whenever he slowed to catch his breath, the curse would come alive, nipping at his ankles like a lash until he sped up. Surely, this period was almost over by now? Richie’s shirt was plastered to his back with sweat, and he was sucking in air in dizzying, whooping gasps.

Down to the edge of the football field. Skirt the road. Up along the side of the school. Along the fence. Back across the open grass towards his class and the football field. As he ran past, he caught a glimpse of Stan Uris’ eyes following him. There was a wrinkle in his brow. But Richie had no time to analyze Stan’s brow-wrinkles. He put his head down, forced his mind blank, and ran.

An indeterminable time later, a bell ringing from the distant school signaled the end of the period. Richie felt a rush of relief. He kept running, watching as Coach Bleider gathered the rest of the kids and dismissed them. Bleider waited until Richie had completed the final leg of his lap — along the fence and back down the length of the field — before yelling at him to stop.

“Get over here, Tozier,” Bleider said, and Richie stumbled up to him. His legs felt like they were made of unset gelatin. Bleider eyed him with lingering annoyance. “I hope you learned your lesson from this,” he said.

Richie nodded, bent over with his hands on his knees. He couldn’t speak through his heavy panting.

“Good,” Bleider said. “Hit the showers, then. Next time you can play with the others, if you don’t speak out again.”

Richie nodded, his rubbery legs already trying to head towards the locker rooms as Bleider’s words settled over him. He got a few yards before Bleider called grudgingly after him, “good hustle, Tozier! You should think about joining track next year, with that endurance.”

For once, Richie held back the retort that sprang to mind and merely flashed Bleider a thumbs-up. He’d as soon dress up in a tutu and dance the can-can as join the track team. After today, he didn’t think he’d ever run another step. Red-faced, sweaty, and too tired to be humiliated, Richie staggered back towards the school.

Stan was waiting for him in the boy’s locker room.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded.

Richie groaned. All he wanted to do was faceplant on his bed for a solid twelve hours, but he still had two periods to struggle through and Stan’s bitchy face to deal with. “What was what, Stan-my-man?” he asked. He tried to sound flippant, but didn’t think he quite pulled it off. He turned away from Stan to open his locker and started pulling out clean clothes to change into, trying to hide how his lungs were still labouring under his skinny ribs.

“ _ That _ ,” Stan insisted. “You know what. I just watched you run forty three laps at practically a sprint.”

“Pish-posh, Stanley,” Richie said, waving a hand. Forty three laps? He was in better shape than he thought. No wonder his legs were cramping. “Practically a warm up.”

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” Stan said flatly.

“Can I shower yet?” Richie asked. “I’m already going to be late to English.” He felt sick. His face was too warm. Stan was bang on the money, Richie  _ felt _ like he was about to pass out.

“Why are you acting so weird?” Stan said.

“I’m not acting weird!”

“Yes, you are!”

Richie’s head was filled with helium. His heartbeat throbbed through his entire body, pulsing in his arms, his throat, his knees, his eyes. He didn’t answer, and Stan’s expression softened.

“I just want to know if something’s wrong, Rich. Just tell me what’s going on with you.”

The command slammed into Richie’s spine like a punch, and his mouth was halfway open before a buzzing under his skin made him freeze.

_ (You must never tell anyone about your gift. Ever.) _

He closed his mouth, but the buzz didn’t stop.

_ (Just tell me what’s going on.) _

Unwillingly, Richie began to tremble. The buzz grew to a sting. Then a burn. What was he supposed to do? He opened his mouth again, tried to speak, and the curse  _ screamed _ at him.

( _ Never tell anyone about your gift.) _

“Richie?” Stan was looking at him worriedly. “Are you okay?”

“Fuck,” Richie mumbled. His body was being yanked in two different directions. His stomach spasmed, and then — despite his protesting legs — he lunged for the toilets. He made it to the first stall and kicked it open before the retching started.

( _ Just tell me.) _

“Shit!” Stan shouted. He hovered by the stall door as Richie threw up the half-digested remains of his lunch.

“Sorry,” Richie said. He spat out a string of saliva. The curse hissed and sparked under his skin, bringing tears to his eyes. “I’ve been feeling sick lately, I guess.”

_ Please, please, let that be enough. _

Stan looked at him helplessly, shaking his head. “Jesus, Richie,” he said.

“Aren’t you not allowed to talk about Jesus? You won’t get any presents at Hanukkah, or something.” Richie rushed through the words, shoulders tensing, then leaned forward to vomit again. It turned out ribbing Stan wasn’t as funny when his intestines were trying to crawl up through his throat.

Thankfully, Stan’s hatred of anything messy extended to watching Richie hurl into a toilet. He pressed his lips together, looking disgusted and frustrated. “Fine. You don’t have to tell me.”

Richie’s shoulders slumped as the curse abated. “Sorry,” he repeated, not sure this time what he was apologizing for. For worrying Stan? For vomiting in front of him and grossing him out? For making a joke about his religion? For being so obnoxious that his own parents would rather brand him with magic than put up with him?

He stood up, not meeting Stan’s eyes. “I’m gonna clean up,” he said. Stan moved to the side, and Richie ignored his dark, thoughtful gaze as he grabbed a towel and headed for the showers.

** **

~

** **

The next day was Saturday, and Bill’s birthday. Richie woke up and immediately regretted it; his entire body felt as though it had been stretched out like freshly-made taffy. He came close to calling Eddie and telling him that he was too sick to come today. If anyone wouldn’t question a sudden illness, it was Eddie. He’d get a lecture about not bringing a coat to school in autumn, and whatever weird disease Eds thought he would catch from that, but ultimately Eddie would let him off the hook.

He knew he couldn’t though. He couldn’t bail on Bill’s surprise party, after all the preparations they had done. Besides, Stan would see right through Richie’s excuses. He lay in bed for several more minutes, weighing his options, then swore and slowly sat up. He couldn’t miss Big Bill’s thirteenth — thirteenth! They were real teenagers now! — birthday because he was feeling a little sore.

Or a lot sore. As gingerly as an old man, Richie got out of bed and hobbled for the stairs. He could hear movement in the kitchen, and an ugly swoop of disappointment went through his stomach. He

_ (hated) _

preferred it when his parents weren’t home at the same time he was.

Wentworth was at the table when Richie made it to the kitchen, which was a little better than Maggie being there too. His mom was, in Richie’s opinion, a little too fond of giving out orders. At least Wentworth never seemed to care much what Richie was doing.

“Morning, Dad,” Richie said.

Wentworth acknowledged his son with a dip of his head, which was good enough for Richie. He was pulling cereal out of a cabinet when Maggie floated into the room.

“Good morning, Richard,” she said. Her voice was always soft, vague and dreamy as though it was coming from someplace far outside herself.

“Morning, Mom.” Richie pulled a bowl from another cabinet, and Maggie seated herself at the table beside her husband.

“Richie, be a dear and make me some eggs,” she said. She smiled at him, as if that would make her words sting any less.

Dully, Richie set down his bowl. “Yes, your highness,” he muttered under his breath. “Wouldn’t dream of keeping you waiting. Or, God forbid, have you make your  _ own _ .”

“What was that, Richard?” Maggie said, her airy voice gaining just the hint of an edge.

“Yes, Mom,” he said louder. He went to the fridge to pull out the egg carton and butter while Maggie turned to her husband and began to chatter about the appointments they had lined up for the day. 

Five minutes later, Richie set her breakfast down on the table and was able to pour his own cereal. He was about to tuck in when Maggie raised a thin eyebrow at him. “Richard, you left the stove dirty. Please do the dishes.”

Richie bit his tongue — his mother had long since forbidden any sort of protest when he was talking with her — and let his spoon fall back into his untouched cereal. He had to clean the pan, the spatula, and wipe down the counter before Maggie allowed him to sit back at the table. His cereal was halfway soggy. He ate it anyway, eating quickly so he could leave the kitchen. Not messily though. Maggie had also seen to it that he never chew with his mouth open, or too loudly.

“Bye Mom, Dad,” he said as soon as he was done, jumping up and putting his dirty bowl in the dishwasher.

“Where are you off to?” Wentworth rumbled. He dropped his paper so he could look at Richie over its top. “You’re in an awful rush.”

Richie fidgeted uncomfortably. “It’s Bill’s birthday,” he said. “Bill Denbrough. So I’ve gotta go help my friends set up for when we surprise him.”

Wentworth’s eyes vanished back behind his paper. “I see. Have fun then.”

The curse perked up at that, and Richie clamped down on the noise of frustration he wanted to make. He supposed he was required to have fun now. Not that he wouldn’t have anyway, but not for the first time, Richie wished that his parents had been a little more careful about the rules of the curse. It was hard enough to take orders. It was worse to have every thoughtless suggestion take root inside of him.

“Yessir,” he said. Maggie smiled at him, and Richie escaped before she could say anything else.

The bike ride over to Stan’s house was excruciating, but by the end of it Richie’s tired muscles were starting to loosen up, and he climbed off his bike a bit more gracefully than he had climbed onto it. Stan’s father let Richie through to the living room, where both Eddie and Stan were already elbow-deep in setting up snacks, cheap streamers, and a hand-painted banner that read “HAPPY BIRTHDAY BILLY” in bright, sloppy letters.

“You’re late,” Eddie said, scowling at the streamers he was trying to pin over the T.V. 

“Sorry, Eds,” Richie said breezily. “I had to stop by to see your Mom. She was missing me.”

“Ew! Jesus, Richie!”

Richie cackled, already feeling the grayness left behind from yesterday, and the morning with his mother, lifting away. Stan was shaking his head.

“Here,” he said. He threw a bag of chips to Richie. “Help me put all the snacks in bowls.”

The curse zinged through Richie’s chest and shoulders. He saluted. “Right away, Stan-the-man.” He headed towards the kitchen, ripping open the bag of chips, and didn’t feel Stan’s gaze as it followed him across the room.

** **

~

** **

“Aw, sh-sh-shit!” Bill yelled, startled and then laughing, when Mrs. Uris lead him into the living room and Stan, Eddie, and Richie leaped out to yell “SURPRISE!” “Y-you guys sh-sh-shouldn’t h-have.”

Richie clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Why, of  _ cawse _ we uh-had to, Billiam!” he said, in what he probably thought was the voice of a Southern Belle but in reality only sounded like Richie with stuffed sinuses. “Awnly the best for mah favorite boy, c’mawn now, don’t Ah get a birthday kiss?”

Bill rolled his eyes and shoved Richie away, laughing despite himself. “Y-y-you’re a m-menace, T-t-t-tozier,” he said.

Stan wrapped Bill in a hug, and Eddie grabbed Bill’s wrist to lead him over to the couch, where all their popcorn, chips, candy, and board game options had been laid out. “We’ve got Risk and Monopoly,” he said, holding them up. “But we figured we’d let you have the final say, since it’s your party.”

“Monopoly,” Bill said.

“That’s just cause you’ve won the past two times,” Stan grumbled.

“B-but it’s m-m-my b-birthday,” Bill said triumphantly, and none of them could argue with that.

“I wanna be the scottie!” Richie said as they began setting up. He lifted the metal token and stroked the dog’s tiny head. “He’ll be the only friend I can count on by the end of this.” He squinted around at all of them. “I don’t trust a one of you miserly sons-of-bitches.”

Bill snorted. “Everyone knows y-y-you c-can’t h-handle your m-money. Your t-token can’t s-save y-y-y-you. I’ll take th-the boat.”

While Richie made indignant noises, Eddie chose the shoe. Stan tapped his fingers on his cheek, deciding. “Are you sure you want the dog, Rich?” he asked. There was something — a strange note in his voice, and Richie couldn’t decipher what it might be.

“Of course!” he said, holding the little scottie close to his chest, as though Stan might try to snatch it out of his hands. “You keep your thieving mitts away from Sir Scott!”

“But you  _ always _ get the dog,” Stan argued. He held out a hand. “I want a turn, let me be the dog this time.”

It wasn’t a request. A buzz woke under Richie’s skin, painful and electric. Still, Richie held onto the token.  _ I don’t want to _ , he thought to himself.  _ I don’t want to give it up _ . “C’mon, Stanley,” he whined, sliding into his Toodles-the-Butler voice. “Sir Scott and myself have a bloomin’ connection, dontcha know!”

“Oh, just give him the dog, Richie,” Eddie said impatiently.

The curse surged, stronger with the double command, and Richie jerked before biting his lip. His fingers trembled, and he willed them to stillness as he passed the token to Stan. He met Stan’s eyes, and there it was again — that strange something that Richie couldn’t put his finger on. He didn’t like it. Stan’s mouth was pressed into a thin, flat line. Despite receiving the scottie, he didn’t look all that happy.

“Well,” Richie said, leaning back and breaking the queer tension that had formed between them. He slapped a fresh smile on his face and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Then I guess I’ll be the hat.”

** **

~

** **

Bill won Monopoly because he was a cheating cheater, but also because he somehow bought both the greens  _ and _ the dark blues, and after he’d installed hotels all along his properties the rest were doomed.

“This is terrible,” Eddie said, covering his eyes. “Terrible and embarrassing.”

“Yowzah, yowzah, YOWZAH!” Richie said. He handed over the last of his money to Bill and flopped onto his back in utter defeat. “Big Bill gets off a good one! You’ve cleaned me dry! How’ll I feed my children now? Poor Tabitha is only four, Bill, you heartless monster. Her daddy’ll have to come home and explain how he didn’t bring back dinner, and they’ll have to move because their house isn’t theirs anymore because mean ol’ Banker Bill took it, and she’ll look at him with big eyes and-”

“Sh-shut up, R-r-richie,” Bill snorted. Eddie snickered and started to gather up the Community Chest cards. Richie obediently closed his mouth.

“Cake?” Stan said. He was watching Richie from the corner of his eye. Richie frowned, and would have called him out on it if he’d been free to talk. Instead, he raised an eyebrow at Stan, who flushed and looked away quickly, standing up to go get a knife from the kitchen.

“G-g-gee, th-thanks g-g-g-guys,” Bill said as they clustered around the coffee table. “Wh-hat type i-is it?”

“Chocolate strawberry,” Eddie told him. Stan re-entered the room with the cake, a knife, and plates and forks.

“Y-y-you guys a-are th-th-the b-best,” Bill said, slinging an arm around Richie’s shoulders as Stan set down his armload and lit the thirteen candles stuck in the top of the cake with a match he took from the mantel. Eddie hit the lights, and Stan, quite unexpectedly, said “you sing too, Richie!”

The tightness in Richie’s throat and lungs eased. His tongue unstuck itself from the roof of his mouth. “Well, duh!” he said. “I’m the best singer of them all! No need to remind everyone, Stanley. You know how jealous Eds gets.”

Eddie shook his head, but the candles were melting fast so they held a quick but rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” so that Bill could blow them out. They cut themselves thick slabs of cake, and Bill opened the presents they each had gotten him: a new toy gun from Richie, a deluxe carton of colored pencils from Eddie, and a tire patch kit for the wheels on his bike, Silver, from Stan. By that time, it was nearing five o’clock.

“I-I’d better b-b-b-be g-going,” Bill said. “Muh-my m-m-m-mom a-and d-d-dad are t-tak-king m-me out t-t-to d-dinner t-t-tonight.” He got another round of hugs from each of them. “Th-thanks guys. This w-w-w-was a-awesome.”

“I’d better head out too,” Eddie said, as they trooped outside into the evening sunlight. “My Mom’ll freak out if I’m not home before dark.”

“Y-y-y-you w-wanna ride d-double on S-s-silver? W-we can st-stop b-b-before your house s-so your m-m-m-mom d-doesn’t see.”

Eddie looked uncertain, but the angle of the sunlight was already slanting low between the browning leaves on the trees. “Alright,” he said, after a moment.

Richie wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. “Oh my baby Eddie-bear,” he said, in a voice that sounded not at all like Sonia Kasprak’s. “You know I hate it when you take risks like that! There’s no pill for a broken hear-”

“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie said. “See you around, Stan!”

“B-b-bye, g-guys!”

Silver was far too large of a bike for Bill, but that fact hadn’t stopped Bill yet. He got Silver rolling, standing on the pedals with the tendons in his neck bulging out from the effort of moving Silver’s massive, oversized frame. The bike wobbled at first, and Eddie, perched on the rear basket, grabbed for the seat with a growing expression of regret. The playing cards clipped to Silver’s front wheel  _ click-clacked _ , faster and faster. Bill threw himself onto the pedals. The bike wobbled again, picked up speed, and steadied. Stan and Richie watched as Silver flew down the street and around the corner, the playing cards machine-gunning against the spokes, Eddie clinging precariously to the back. Richie thought he heard a faint yell of “hi-ho Silver, AWAYYY!” from Bill before the bike and the two boys swept out of sight.

Richie blew out a breath. “Need help cleaning up?” he asked, turning to Stan. Or he tried to ask it. Eddie’s parting words had, once again, cut off his voice. A searing, fizzy pain dragged through his chest as he formed the words, smothering them before they reached his mouth. He coughed and rubbed his chest, then coughed again to hide the pain that momentarily made its way onto his face.

“You can talk, Richie.”

Richie snapped his head up even as his throat unlocked itself. “Of course I can talk,” he said. “The trick is getting me to stop, so I’m told. You’re a strange kid, Stanley-the-Manly. Do you need any help cleaning up?”

The shadows were gathering under the trees, and their own shadows were stretching long across the grass. Stan looked at him in the deepening dusk, and that same undefinable  _ something _ was back in his eyes. “You know what I’m talking about,” he said quietly.

Richie shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he said. “Is this a Jewish thing? You know I don’t hold with your Christ-killing ways.”

For once, Stan didn’t rise to the bait. “It took me awhile to figure it out,” he continued. “A long time. You’re really good at covering for it.”

A slow feeling of falling opened up beneath Richie’s feet, and he took a step back, still shaking his head. He needed to leave, to get away  _ right now _ , because Stan was smart and Stan saw things and if Stan  _ knew _ — But his feet were frozen to the grass. “Stan-my-man,” he started, but Stan interrupted him.

“I noticed at first with the cakes, you know? All of a sudden you wouldn’t say a word, until that girl came to help us at the counter.”

Richie took another step back, shaking his head so hard now that his whole spine seemed to be twisting out of joint. “Stan—”

“And then yesterday,” Stan pressed on, his face set and his lower lip jutted out stubbornly. “During P.E., and after in the locker rooms, you looked like I was ripping you in half when I asked — no, when I  _ told _ you to tell me what was going on.”

“Stop,” Richie whispered.

Stan didn’t listen. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. He was wearing an expression that Richie had never seen before: his lips quivering, his cheeks flushed, with eyes that were bright and glistening in the dying light. This was beyond angry. Stan was furious. “And even then,” he said. “Even then, I wasn’t sure, because that would be crazy, right? Crazy that you’d been my friend for so long and I never even noticed—”

_ (No, no, no, stop, stop, Stan can’t know, he  _ ** _can’t_ ** _ , he’ll know you’re a freak and he’ll leave and he’ll tell the others and they’ll _ ** _ all _ ** _ leave) _

“It’s okay if you don’t want to say it. Maybe you can’t say it. So I’ll say it for you. You’ve been cursed, haven’t you? Cursed to be obedient?”

_ (Convince him, convince him he’s wrong, convince him,  _ ** _convince him_ ** _ ) _

Richie forced out an extremely stiff, unconvincing laugh. “What are you talking about?” he said. “A curse? Stan, that’s the most fucking insane thing—”

“Clap your hands five times right now.”

Richie clapped his hands five times. The curse took him so off guard that he didn’t even hesitate to do it.

“Fuck,” Stan breathed. His face had gone white. His eyes were wide.

Richie stumbled backward. His heart was thrumming too fast. Stan’s exclamation was a blow to his gut, knocking all the air from his chest. He started to shake. “Don’t tell the others,” he said in a rush. “Please, please, Stan, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, please don’t be mad, don’t tell Eddie and Bill  _ please _ . I’ll do whatever you want, okay? You know I will, just say the word, just don’t tell them.” Tears pricked at the backs of his eyes. Stan’s horrified face was all he could see. “I’m sorry, it’s fucked, I know, I’m fucked up and messed up, but I  _ swear _ -”

“Stop,” Stan gasped out. Richie stopped immediately. “Fuck, no,” Stan said, his face becoming even paler. “That’s not what I — don’t stop just because I said so!” He lifted his hands as though to grab Richie’s shoulders, but stopped himself and shoved shaking fingers through his curly hair instead. 

Richie watched him warily. “That’s sort of the point, you know,” he said.

Stan was quiet for a long moment. “Right,” he said at last. He bit his lip. “I was reading up on curses after, well…” He cut himself off.

_ After I slipped up _ , Richie filled in, closing his eyes. How could he have been so careless? He’d fucked up over and over, and of everyone, Stanley Uris had to be the one to notice. 

Stan moved forward, holding up his hands, and Richie’s attention jerked back to him. “Can I… Can I see?” Stan asked softly. Richie stared at him. See what? But Stan seemed to take his silence as consent, because he reached out to tug at the collar of Richie’s shirt, and — oh.

Stan pulled Richie’s shirt down far enough to uncover the red, scarred lines that traced through the skin over his heart. Stan’s breath caught. His fingers hovered over the lines, then withdrew without touching. Richie glanced at his face, bracing himself for disgust, pity, for Stan to push him away and kick him off his lawn.

Stan yanked Richie into a hug.

_ (What? What’s he doing, why-?) _

“I’m sorry,” Stan whispered fiercely. “I’m so sorry. Goddamnit, Richie. Who did this to you?”

Something cracked in Richie’s chest. This was… not what he had been expecting. Why wasn’t Stan shoving him off? Why wasn’t Stan shouting? He’d finally figured out just how fucked up Richie was, and he’d  _ pulled Richie closer _ . That wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

“I can’t tell you,” Richie whispered back. He felt the line of Stan’s spine tense under his hands. This was it then.  _ Now _ Stan would pull away.

Stan didn’t pull away. “Alright,” he said. “Alright.” His voice hitched, and his arms tightened around Richie’s shoulders. 

The tears that had been pressing at the corners of Richie’s eyes suddenly slipped down his cheeks. His shoulders started to shake. He buried his face in Stan’s neck, and Stan didn’t move, even when his skin grew wet and the ridge of Richie’s glasses dug into his collarbone. They clung to each other as the sun set and the dying leaves rustled in a cold, autumn wind.

** **

~

** **

On Monday, Richie slid his lunch tray down next to Eddie with a satisfied smack of his lips.

“Wh-what’s uh-up with y-y-you?” Bill asked, over the din of three hundred middle schoolers eating lunch.

“Nothing,” Richie said. “Just remembering how great Eddie’s mom was last night.”

“Richie,” Eddie began, already bristling. “Just shut-”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Stan said, interrupting Eddie.

Everyone stared at Stan. Richie raised his eyebrows. “What the hell does that mean?” he asked.

Bill snorted into his sandwich. “I l-l-l-like it,” he said. “L-l-l-like a t-truck that’s a-a-ab-about t-to crash. Beep beep, R-richie.”

Stan was smiling to himself, hiding it behind his hand. Richie caught Stan’s eye, and his own mouth quirked. “Ah, you guys just can’t appreciate my wit,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Not like Eddie’s mom, anyway.”

“Beep beep, Richie!” Eddie said loudly.

Stan looked at his lunch tray, a smug  _ something _ in his eyes.

Richie grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright my friends, next chapter will be up on next Sunday! And now all the groundwork has been laid, we can really start getting into it.
> 
> If you liked it, if you didn't, if you have comments or questions or just want to chat, hit me up in the reviews! I love hearing feedback, it is my lifeblood <3


	3. Part Three - 1991: The Kissing Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, it was Patrick fucking Hockstetter — smirking, sadistic, certifiably-insane Patrick Hockstetter — who was the second to figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I might have jumped the gun on this one: it's not actually Sunday, and I realize that. But whatever. I finished editing, and I was excited to post this chapter, so I'm posting a day early. I'm a fucking rebel.
> 
> The plot is about to pick up guys, so hold onto your seats. Again, please, READ THE TAGS. This story gets pretty rough in spots. I'll post Trigger Warnings at the beginning of each chapter and summaries of the most intense sections, but I'm assuming that you read the tags on your way in and that you know what's coming. Please take care of yourselves.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mild violence

Of course, it was Patrick fucking Hockstetter — smirking, sadistic, certifiably-insane Patrick Hockstetter — who was the second to figure it out.

It was nearly summer by then. School would let out in just a few weeks, and then the Losers would be halfway through high school. Well, except for Stan, who was a year younger, but that hardly mattered when he was probably smarter and more mature than both Richie and Eddie put together. 

Richie sat in his final period of the day, Trigonometry, resting his chin in his hand and staring dreamily out the window into the late spring heat. Bill was beside him. Occasionally, Richie would peek over at Bill’s desk, hoping that the other boy was taking notes because Richie certainly wasn’t, but it seemed that the lecture wasn’t holding Bill’s interest either. Every time Richie glanced over, Bill had made a little more progress on his sketch of a large turtle sticking its head out of its shell. 

Both Bill and Richie had shot up in height over the school year. They’d begun to tower over poor Eddie, who continued to insist that his growth spurt was just around the corner. Bill in particular was beginning to look more like a man than a boy. He’d picked up basketball the summer before, and Richie had been shocked at how rapidly Bill had filled out through his shoulders and chest. Richie, on the other hand, remained gangly and stretched out, like a long-legged water bird. 

Eddie was seated behind both of them. Every so often, he would sink down in his seat to kick the back of Richie’s chair when Richie started to nod off. Unlike Bill, his scribblings actually were notes. Once a mama’s boy, always a mama’s boy, Richie supposed. Even if the mama in this case was Mr. Polaski, who was gamely trying to keep his student’s attention despite their dull eyes and vacant expressions. 

With only five minutes left, Richie tore a strip out of his own notebook.  _ Barrens? _ He wrote. He balled up the note and chucked it onto Bill’s desk, but it took Bill a moment to notice it. He’d been staring at the back of Beverly Marsh’s head and watching the way the sunlight lit her fiery hair.

He jumped when he saw the note, unfolded it, then shot Richie a quick nod and a smile. Though they were probably too old to still be hanging out in the Barrens, the forested stretch of land that ran along Derry’s western edge, they still found themselves occasionally trooping down between the leaning trees to lay in the wild grass, or to dangle their feet above the rushing waters of the Kenduskeag river.

The bell rang, cutting off Mr. Polaski’s lecture, which was just fine with Richie. He hadn’t been paying attention anyway. He shoved his notebook and pencils into his backpack and swung out of his seat, already bouncing and eager to release the pent up energy that always built up during the school day. “Eds!” he said, over the din of their other classmates packing their things. “Barrens. You in?”

“Today?” Eddie looked confused. “Don’t you have an essay due for Mr. Knowles by the end of the week?”

Richie waved a hand. “Pshaw. I could write that essay in my sleep.”

“It’s your grade,” Eddie said, shrugging. “Sure, I’m in. I still don’t understand how you do fine in all your classes when you leave shit like this ‘til the last minute.”

“It’s called intelligence, Eds.”

Bill choked on a laugh. “I-is that wh-what they’re calling it n-n-now?” he said. His stutter, while still noticeable, had improved dramatically in the past couple years, ever since he’d started visiting a speech therapist up in Bangor.

“You wound me, Big Bill,” Richie sniffed, as they left the classroom and joined the stream of kids heading towards the front of the school. “You think Stan’ll want to come?”

“Stan’s a freshman,” Eddie said. “It’s not like he has any work to worry about.”

“W-w-we were f-freshman l-last year, and w-we had work,” Bill pointed out.

“Not  _ real _ work,” Eddie said. “We just thought we did.”

“Our Eds has grown wise,” Richie said grandly. “He has the weight of the world on his skinny sophomore shoulders.”

“It’s a h-heavy burden,” Bill agreed.

“Maybe that’s why you’re still so short, Spaghetti Man. It’s pressing you right into the ground.”

“Oh, the both of you can just fuck off,” Eddie said. “Where the hell is Stan? I need someone who can have an actual conversation like an adult.”

Bill pointed down the hallway. “Th-there he is. By h-h-his l-locker.”

They shoved through the crowd, Richie elbowing one or two of the kids who were moving too slowly, and pulled to a stop behind Stan. Stan was shoving textbooks into his locker, his pants and shirt as pressed as always, and he turned to greet them with a smile when Eddie called his name.

“Stanley!” Richie cried, “my sweet freshman boy! Look at all these books your teachers are making you carry. This has got to be child labor in some capacity! Should I lodge a complaint? As a sophomore, I have some sway in upper management, you know.”

“Why not,” Stan said dryly. “I’m sure Principal Bradley hasn’t had anything good to laugh at for a while.” He finished putting away his school books, and listened while Bill told him the plan. “We haven’t been to the Barrens in awhile,” he said, slamming his locker closed. “I swear last time I heard a crested caracara while we were down there, but I haven’t gotten to go back and check.”

“S-so you’re still i-i-into your b-bird watching?” Bill asked. “Y-you haven’t mentioned it f-f-for awhile.”

Stan sighed and hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders. “Yeah, school’s kind of been getting in the way. There’s a lot more work than from Junior High.”

Eddie nudged Richie hard in the ribs, and Richie disguised his snicker with a cough.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was high as they left the building, shining with a spring warmth that chased away the last memories of winter. As the days lengthened, new buds had appeared on the trees and bushes, and flowers had pushed up from the thawing soil. The air smelled like cut grass and hot asphalt. All four boys stripped off their jackets and slung them over their shoulders, except for Eddie, who folded his carefully and put it in his backpack so it wouldn’t get pollen stains.

They struck off towards downtown, following the sounds of traffic. Richie and Bill began a discussion on the latest comic prints, with both Stan and Eddie chiming in as they strode along the canal and toward the Kissing Bridge. 

“I’m telling you, Cyclops is way fucking better than Angel!” Richie said. “Angel just flies around, okay, Cyclops shoots fucking lasers out of his eyes!”

Bill shook his head. “B-but Cyclops is j-j-just s-such a boring ch-character. R-r-remember when Angle l-l-l-literally g-gets his w-wings ripped off? Cyclops c-c-could never h-have survived someth-thing like that!”

“Slander!” Richie clutched his chest. “Eds, get in here and help me defend Cyclops’ honor.”

“No fucking way, you both are wrong anyway,” Eddie said. “Jean Gray is the best, everyone knows that. That’s like, canon.”

“J-j-just because sh-she’s powerful d-doesn’t make her th-th-the best,” Bill argued.

“Yeah, but she would definitely survive having her wings ripped off,” Eddie said.

“She doesn’t have wings! That’s a moot point!” Richie said. He threw his hands in the air. “Lasers! From his eyes!”

“H-havoc also shoots las-sers, it’s n-n-not even th-that unique.” Bill said.

“Jean Gray can basically shoot lasers anyway,” Eddie insisted. “And fly. So she’s already cooler than Angel and Cyclops put together.”

Richie turned to Stan, who surely would see through this insanity. He was almost ready to roll up his sleeves and knock these two idiots’ heads together until they saw reason. A blue flash out of the corner of his eye stopped him before he could.

Normally, they dropped down into the Barrens from a little path that branched off to the left, still out of sight beyond the bridge from where they stood. As they took their first steps onto the wood-planked sidewalk, a car pulled up beside them on the bridge. The car was polished and sleek, and a familiar blond mullet was visible in the front seat. 

“Oh fuck,” Richie said.

Henry Bowers leaned out of the driver-side window. He was smiling unpleasantly, with his piggy eyes glittering and his stupid hair slicked back from his face. Patrick Hockstetter was standing on the passenger seat. He had one hand on the windshield of the open-topped car, balancing there as the car slowed to a crawl. Victor Criss’ weaselly face peered from the backseat.

“Where’re you losers off to in such a hurry?” Bowers shouted to them.

It was such an obvious opening. Without consulting Richie on the matter, Richie’s mouth dropped open and called out, “to your Mom’s, Bowers! She asked all of us to drop by, I guess she was feeling  _ ex _ tra lonely today.”

“Richie, no,” Eddie groaned.

Bowers’ face went purple, and the car ground to a halt. “You shut the fuck up about my Ma, Shitface,” Bowers said. He looked like he might get out of the car and personally make Richie shut up, but Patrick Hockstetter was sniggering so Bowers turned and punched him in the thigh. “You shut up too!” He glared out the window at the Losers. “Not that your Ma cares about you at all, Tozier,” he shouted. “Everyone knows your parents fuck off whenever they can. I guess they can’t stand the sight of your froggy little face, huh?”

Richie’s smile slipped, but Bill was already stepping in front of him, his back straight and hands clenched. “F-fuck off, Bowers!” he shouted. “Don’t you h-have summer s-s-school classes to f-fail or s-something?”

“I got plenty of time to pound you losers into the ground,” Bowers said. For a moment, Richie thought he might get out of the car to fulfil that promise, but Criss leaned forward from the backseat and whispered into Bowers’ ear. Bowers scowled.

“What’s wrong?” Richie said. One day his mouth really was going to get him killed. “Does your dad need you home to suck his dick again?”

“ _ Richie _ ,” Eddie said despairingly.

“We should run now,” Stan said.

Bill squared his shoulders, apparently ready to take Bowers and his lackeys on with nothing except his fists.

But Bowers didn’t get out of the car. Instead, he leaned out the driver’s window, his expression promising pain. He formed a gun with his fingers and, deliberately, aimed it at Richie. He pulled the trigger. “Bang,” he said, and all four Losers jumped. “You’re lucky we’re in a hurry, Tozier,” he said. “Don’t think I’m forgetting about this.” He pulled his lips back, baring his uneven teeth. “I’m gonna find you and make you regret everything you said about my parents. Go throw yourself off this bridge right now, it’ll save me the trouble of doing it later.”

Like static from a bad T.V. connection, the curse crackled to life.

** **

~

** **

Contrary to popular belief, Patrick Hockstetter wasn’t stupid. A lot of people thought so, because Patrick ran with kids like Belch Huggins and Henry Bowers, neither of whom could be classified as “smart,” per say. Belch was a brick shithouse, sure, but his genes had favored him with brawn rather than brains. Henry had already repeated the ninth grade, and was now looking at remedial classes over the summer so as not to be held back  _ again _ in the eleventh. Patrick understood why most people didn’t expect a whole lot from him, when he hung around with kids like these.

But most people were wrong. Patrick was smart. Even worse than that, Patrick was observant. He wasn’t like most of the idiots walking around the world with their heads up their own asses. Patrick had been around for long enough to realize that people were cows, lowing stupidly, sitting around in their own farts and waiting for someone to end their miserable existences with a blunt hammer to the head. Not Patrick though. He wasn’t a fucking cow. 

When Bowers spotted the group of boys trooping over the Kissing Bridge, Patrick didn’t think anything of it. Maybe they’d squeeze in some fun before Henry had to help his dad with chores and Victor went off to his job at the gas station. Maybe not. Patrick didn’t much care. He had his own fun planned for later, when he and Moose Sadler would head over to the Derry Dump to look for stray dogs.

Hockstetter certainly didn’t think that this car ride would be quite so… interesting. Standing on his seat in Henry’s car, Patrick saw the whole thing, although he doubted either Henry or Victor picked up on it.

As Henry finished shouting, Trashmouth Tozier’s face went white. Something flickered in his expression— panic? — but it was there and gone in an instant. He half-turned, and his hands found the railing of the Kissing Bridge. The thunder of the river below sent up sprays of mist that wetted Tozier’s face and glasses. One foot began to lift, stepping up to the ledge, but then the Jew kid was there, grabbing Trashmouth’s arm and whispering furiously into his ear. Tozier let go of the rail. It happened fast, only a couple of seconds, but Patrick Hockstetter was no fucking cow.

He licked his lips, thinking.

** **

~

** **

“J-j-just fuck off, Bowers!” Bill shouted.

Bowers leaned on his horn, sneered, spat in the directions of the Losers — Eddie jumped backward and almost knocked Stan over — and drove off, laughing. Hockstetter stayed on his feet, swaying with the motion of the car, and watched the Losers until the car and its occupants had vanished over the other side of the bridge.

“I hate those assholes,” Eddie said, glaring in the direction Bowers and his gang had gone. “I swear to God, they’ve been messing with us for-fucking-ever, why don’t they have anything better to do!”

Bill shook his head.

“I mean it,” Eddie said. “One of these days I’m going to lose it. You’re gonna have to hold me back Bill, because I’m going to punch Henry Bowers in the face and then he will actually kill me.”

“I’ll help you hold him down,” Bill offered.

Richie tried very hard to keep his hands from trembling. It had been so  _ close _ . He knew he would have done it, climbed over the fence and jumped straight down to where the river boiled over the rocks below. His hands had already been lifting him up over the railing, his legs tensing, ready to push himself off the narrow ledge. If Stan hadn’t been there, Bowers would have been rid of him as easy as that. If Stan hadn’t—

Bill and Eddie were heading towards the path leading down to the Barrens. Eddie was ranting about Bowers, waving his hands in choppy, angry gestures. Normally, Richie would have teased him for it, would have joked that Eddie’s rage weighed more than he did, but Richie wasn’t quite ready for chucks just yet. He grabbed Stan’s arm before Stan could follow the others.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Stan put his hand on Richie’s wrist, above where Richie was holding onto him. Both boys’ knuckles were white and bloodless. Stan’s eyes were huge in his face. He squeezed Richie’s wrist.

“Anytime,” he said. “Jesus, Richie.”

Richie shuddered.

In the three years since Stan had figured out about his curse, he had been… well, amazing, really. He never gave Richie orders, even by accident. When someone gave a throwaway order at school that made the curse snap into action under Richie’s skin, Stan would be there to tell Richie to ignore it. Even on the days when Richie came to school pissed off and withdrawn after a night of dealing with his parents, Stan wouldn’t push him. He would just invite Richie over to hang out at his house after class. Richie was sure that Stan had figured out by now who was responsible for the mark on his chest — Richie sure as hell hadn’t told him, couldn’t even if he wanted to — but Stan was smart enough to work it out on his own. Yet he never asked Richie questions about his parents, even when Richie knew he was curious. Maybe he knew that Richie wouldn’t answer him, curse or no. 

“Thanks,” Richie said again. He let go of Stan and stepped back, trying for a smile. “C’mon, they’re gonna leave us behind.”

“Richie,” Stan said, stopping him before he could turn away. His face was serious. “Wait a moment.”

“What?” Richie paused. Stan was looking at him with an expression Richie had grown to recognize over the past three years. It was one of the expressions Richie dreaded. He knew what was coming.

“You know—” Stan started, but Richie cut him off.

“No, Stan, Jesus, we’re not gonna have this conversation again, are we?” Richie scrunched up his face and put on the voice of a stuffy English aristocrat. It was Stan’s least favorite voice, which Richie only figured he deserved for bringing up this stupid topic again and again. “We’ve dragged this horse through the mud and back, wot! Damn near beat it to death a good dozen times! Be a good chap and let it go, old boy.”

“Richie,” Stan said, refusing to rise to the bait. He pressed his lips together and fixed Richie with such a piercing stare that Richie dropped his eyes. “When are you going to let me tell them?” Stan asked. He jerked his chin in the direction of the path, where Bill and Eddie were probably wondering what the fuck was taking their friends so long.

Richie’s jaw tightened. “Never,” he said shortly.

“Dammit, you can’t keep this from them forever,” Stan hissed. “Especially after something like this. What if I hadn’t been here when Bowers pulled up?”

Richie flinched. The roar of the river below them was faint but clear. He shook his head at Stan. “How many times do we have to argue about this?” he said, dropping the accent. He tried to sound snappy, but his voice came out tired instead. “I don’t want them to know.”

“But they could help—” Stan began.

“Just drop it, Stan!” 

Stan glared at him. “I want you to be safe, asshole. Why don’t you get that?”

“I get that,” Richie said. “I just—”

“Just what?” Stan demanded.

“I don’t want them to know, alright?” Richie said angrily.

“Richie—”

“Can’t you leave it alone?”

“You don’t have to be scared, you know,” Stan said.

Richie looked away. 

“Bill and Eddie won’t care,” Stan said, his voice gentling. “They deserve some credit. They’ll still see you the same way.”

“You can’t know that,” Richie said. He didn’t mean to say it, but, like always, his mouth ran away with him.

“I can know it,” Stan said. “I didn’t hate you, did I?”

Crashing in the brush behind them announced Eddie’s return. “What in the hell are you guys still doing up here?” he demanded, emerging back onto the road. “Are you just gonna wait there like idiots until Bowers decides to take a second pass?”

The corners of Stan’s mouth were still pulled down, but he rolled his eyes. “Calm down, we’re coming.” He shot Richie a last glance.

“Yeh, c’mon, me cullies!” Richie said, practicing the pirate’s rasp he’d recently grown fond of. “We’ve got sails to hoist and bonnie lasses to rescue, so we do!” He frowned. The pirate still sounded too similar to his Irish policeman’s voice, he decided. But he let Eddie shepherd him down the trail. He snuck a peek at Stan, who was following behind.

_ Thank you _ , he mouthed.

Stan still looked troubled, but he gave Richie a small smile anyway.

Bill was waiting for them a few hundred yards down the trail, and together they ducked into the undergrowth, heading towards the sound of rushing water. Away from the road, where the Kenduskeag bent towards the south and flowed towards the flatlands on the edge of Derry proper, the trees formed a natural clearing carpeted by young spring grass. Stan had found it years ago, exploring the Barrens with his binoculars in one hand and his  Big Book of Bird Species in the other. It had become a kind of unofficial hangout for them in their younger days, a place to meet away from the eyes of parents and bullies alike. Richie could almost see the imprints of their outlines, worn into the grass over the years.

It was there that they whiled away the hours until sunset, lying on their backs and enjoying the delicate spring heat. Richie had brought a pack of cards, and he coaxed Bill into a few games of Gin Rummy while Eddie did homework and Stan lay with his face buried in a nerdy book about birds. The trees had already budded, for the most part, and new leaves were beginning to unfurl. The light shone through the branches, touching the clearing with green and gold. The sounds of traffic reached them occasionally from Kansas Street, but it was far away, forgotten in the midst of the waving grasses and the  _ shush  _ of the wind.

It was a good day.

The next day was not.

** **

~

** **

Third period was Richie’s least favorite. Mrs. Huxley had a droning, inflectionless voice that seemed designed to put Richie right to sleep. She taught Biology, and the worst thing was that Richie thought he might even  _ like _ Biology if it wasn’t for Mrs. Huxley’s mind-numbing lectures.

Bill was in the class, which made it slightly better. At least Richie had someone to bitch with. But both Belch Huggins and Patrick Hockstetter were in the class too, which made it exponentially worse. Belch’s favorite way to kill time until the bell was to shoot spitballs at the kid unlucky enough to have the desk in front of him: cliche, but effective. And Hockstetter, well, Hockstetter was just  _ creepy _ . He rarely said anything, but his eyes were large and bulging, and he always reminded Richie of a praying mantis. Hockstetter liked to reach forward when Mrs. Huxley’s back was turned to snap the bra straps of the girl sitting in front of him. She hadn’t seemed to learn that the more she squeaked, the louder Hockstetter laughed.

About halfway through the period, Richie decided he needed a break. He raised his hand, interrupting Mrs. Huxley’s long-winded (and barely comprehensible) description of mitosis. 

“Mr. Tozier?” Mrs. Huxley said, annoyed at the distraction.

“Sorry, my lovely gal,” Richie said. “It’s just I need to relieve myself you see—”

Mrs. Huxley, like all of Richie’s teachers, had long since been forced to accept the use of Richie’s ridiculous voices. She waved a hand at him to cut him off. “Yes, go, go. Now, as the DNA within the cell begins to form into…”

Richie left the room in relief.  _ Good luck in there, Bill _ , he thought, and decided that he would take a  _ long _ bathroom break. It was rude to rush a man, after all. He strolled down the hallway, his hands in his pockets. He’d left a candy bar in his locker, maybe he could grab it and go sit out behind the science wing for a minute or two. No teachers ever checked back there. 

Besides, it wasn’t like his parents would care, even if he did get a write-up from Mrs. Huxley. He hadn’t seen his dad in a couple of days; apparently Wentworth had flown to the West Coast for a business convention in San Francisco, with no mention of when he might be back. And Maggie... Richie scowled. She’d woken him up that morning, already lost in a vacant haze as she knocked on his bedroom door and asked him if he could make her breakfast. Well. Asked wasn’t the right word. And Richie had almost been late to school afterwards, because she’d ordered him to his room for some cleaning, then forgotten to let him back out again.

Richie was definitely grabbing that candy bar. Fuck Mrs. Huxley and her lectures.

He was already daydreaming, wondering if he could sneak a nap while he was out there, when he heard the classroom door open again.

“Hey, Fuckface!”

Richie recognized the voice, and his heart dropped into his stomach. It was Patrick Hockstetter. As if his day hadn’t been bad enough already. He walked faster, not turning his head, trying not to look like he was running away. If he could just make it to the end of the hall and turn the corner he could bolt. He was quicker than Hockstetter. With a good head start he could lose the other boy and escape whatever beating Hockstetter had in mind.

But he hadn’t taken five steps when Hockstetter called out “hold up, Four-eyes,” and Richie ground to a halt. Hockstetter’s footsteps sounded on the floor behind him.

_ Fucking  _ ** _run_ ** , Richie tried to tell himself, but just the thought of moving had the curse crackling like static under his skin.

“You’re off someplace in a hurry,” Hockstetter said, easily catching up to Richie with his long legs. He was grinning, his eyes held just a little too wide. Richie could see slim rims of white all around his irises. “Someplace you’d rather be?”

“Fuck off, Patrick,” Richie said. Unoriginal, but Richie really wasn’t in the mood to banter with bullies. Besides, he didn’t like that Hockstetter had stopped him from running away.

Hockstetter’s grin widened. “Touchy,” he said. Now that Hockstetter was beside him, Richie could feel the effects of the command wearing off. He took two steps sideways, putting space between them, and Hockstetter followed the movement with his head cocked to the side. “Hmm,” he said. He sounded as though he was working through some puzzle in his head, but Richie didn’t intend to stick around and find out what that might be. He took two more steps back, preparing himself to sprint down the corridor towards Mrs. Huxley’s class — better bored out of his mind that getting the shit kicked out of him.

“Well, have fun pulling the wings off flies, or whatever you’re off to do,” he said. “I’m going back to class.”

Hockstetter raised his eyebrows. “Thought you had to take a piss.”

“I think I’d rather hold it, actually.”

Hockstetter’s grin was back. “Funny how things change.” The glint in his eyes shifted. Richie was ready though: he took off down the hallway, dodging out of the reach of Hockstetter’s grasping, wiry arms as Hockstetter lunged for him.

“Stop!” Hockstetter shouted.

Richie’s legs stumbled, then slowed. His heart began to pound, nearly drowning out the giggling coming from behind him.

“What’s the matter, Trashmouth?” Hockstetter said. His voice was gleeful and ugly all at once. “Was it something I said?”

Richie didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to. What the fuck was Hockstetter playing at? Sweat prickled down his back.

Hockstetter came up behind him. He was so close, Richie could feel Hockstetter’s heat through the thin T-shirt he’d thrown on this morning. Richie tried to step away but one of Hockstetter’s spiderlike hands clamped down on his shoulder. ““Trashmouth’s got a sec-ret,” Hockstetter singsonged into his ear.

“What are you talking about?” Richie snapped. An irrational fear

_ (he can’t know, Hockstetter can’t know) _

blossomed in his chest but he pushed it back down. It was impossible. Even if Richie had made a mistake, Hockstetter wasn’t smart enough to find his way out of an empty room. He couldn’t know anything. Richie wrenched at his shoulder, but Hockstetter’s hand was like an iron vice, grinding his bones together.

“I think you know,” Hockstetter breathed. “I’m impressed you kept it quiet for so long, what with the mouth you’ve got on you.”

Richie twisted, but Hockstetter’s grip was unyielding. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “You’re fucking insane. Let me go!”

“Nah, I don’t think so. Come here.” 

Richie didn’t even need the curse to make him move; Hockstetter dragged him by the arm across the hall, nudging open the door to an empty classroom and shoving Richie inside.

“Stand still and shut up,” Hockstetter said.

“Fu-” Richie started to say, but pain burned through his lips and chest and he shut his mouth with a click. He wanted to ask what the hell Hockstetter’s deal was, but his voice wasn’t working anymore.

Hockstetter’s expression was feral with excitement. He was panting, his glassy eyes nearly bugging out of his head. “You really must be the most annoying kid in the world,” he said. He yanked on the neck of Richie’s t-shirt, pulling it down until the red brand across Richie’s heart was visible, peeking out past the stretched fabric.

Richie’s breathing stuttered and he stared at Hockstetter. What the fuck? No. Hockstetter didn’t know,  _ couldn’t _ know what the brand meant, that was fucking impossible— How had he even known it would be there? Hockstetter traced the line of the brand with his thumb, and Richie’s skin crawled. He needed to knock Hockstetter off of him, to get the fuck out of this classroom and run for his fucking life, except he couldn’t fucking  _ move _ . 

Hockstetter let go of Richie, threw his head back, and roared with laughter. Richie flinched at the noise and the pain of the curse surged again, fixing him in place.

“Oh my g-g-g-god!” Hockstetter howled, wrapping his arms around his chest as laughter shook through him. “Oh my god, Tozier, someone must r-r-r-r-r-r-” He couldn’t continue, choking on laughter, stuttering so hard he almost sounded like Bill. He wasn’t trying to be quiet, and Richie prayed someone would hear, someone would come investigate. Why was Hockstetter laughing? Why would he laugh, unless he knew what a scar like that meant? 

For the first time, uncertainty twinged in Richie’s guts. 

Hockstetter was getting a hold of himself. He wiped tears away from his cheeks, still giggling. “Someone must really hate you, Trashmouth,” he said. “That scar looks pretty old. Was it your parents? I guess even when you were a kid they realized what a little fucking turd you’d grow up to be.”

Richie’s face flushed red. The uncertainty was morphing into panic, wrapping tendrils through his lungs and throat.

Hockstetter grinned like Christmas had come early and he was ready to saw off Santa’s head to keep all the presents for himself. “Tell me how old it is,” he said.

Richie’s jaw unlocked. “Almost twelve years,” he spat out.

Hockstetter rocked back on his heels, braying with laughter.

“Shut up!” Richie shouted. He was shaking from a combination of fear, humiliation, and anger. “Just shut the fuck up! Let me go Hockstetter, just let me go right the fuck now or I swear to God—” 

“You swear what, Fuckface?” Hockstetter was suddenly right in Richie’s space, crowding up against where Richie’s feet were still glued to the floor. “What do you think you can do, huh?” He drew his lips back, baring his teeth in a smile that was closer to a snarl. “It looks like to me you can’t do anything I don’t want you to do. It looks like to me I’ve found my very own cursed toy to play with.”

Richie couldn’t help the shudder that worked its way down his back. He knew Hockstetter had seen it too.  _ Bill! _ he wanted to shout.  _ Stan! Eddie! I could use someone to bail me out right about now! _ But his friends might have been on the other side of the world. 

He glared up at Hockstetter. “You stay the fuck away from me,” he hissed. “You’re fucking insane. I’m not your fucking toy. If you touch me I swear to God I’ll, I’ll....” He trailed off, his jaw clenching as Hockstetter brushed the back of his hand across Richie’s cheek.

“Oh, stop it,” Hockstetter said. “We both know you can’t do anything to me, not unless I say you can. You’re real cute when you try to be threatening.” He snickered. Lightning-fast, his arm drew back. He slapped Richie so hard that Richie’s head snapped to the side and his glasses flew halfway off his face, dangling from one ear. Hockstetter readjusted them for him. Richie gritted his teeth. His eyes stung, and he had never wished so badly that he could just  _ move his goddamn arms _ .

“We’re gonna have fun together,” Hockstetter told him. He was watching Richie’s cheek, where surely a red mark was appearing. He grinned. “Aren’t we? Tell me we’re going to have fun together.”

Richie bit his tongue, feeling blood in his mouth and the curse writhing under his skin. “We’re going to have fun together,” he said tonelessly.

Hockstetter giggled. “That’s my good boy.”

Richie opened his mouth, ready to snarl a retort.

“Shut up,” Hockstetter said.

Richie closed his mouth. Hockstetter’s face blazed with glee. “Meet me at the entrance to the Dump after school,” he said. “At five. Don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Don’t tell anyone that I know your secret. Don’t even try to think about weaselling your fucking frog-face out of it.”

Richie’s composure broke a little more with each word. He could feel them sinking into him, anchoring into his bones like metal pitons hammered into rock. He wondered if this was how it felt to go crazy. The numb disbelief that Hockstetter knew, that he could  _ possibly _ know, was slipping away piece by piece.

“Got it? Answer me.”

“Yes,” Richie whispered.

“Don’t move,” Hockstetter said again, and then he spit in Richie’s face. The wad of phlegm landed just to the right of Richie’s chin. Hockstetter laughed, raising his hand to smear the saliva across Richie’s cheeks and lips. Richie wanted to throw up. “Good boy,” Hockstetter crooned. “You’ve gotta take whatever it is I want to do to you.” He slapped Richie once more, lightly, just to prove his point. 

“I’ll see you later, Fuckface,” he said, stepping back and wiping his hand on Richie’s shirt. “Wait a couple minutes after I leave before you move. And remember, no telling anyone. It’s our secret now.” He put a finger to his lips, smirking, and left the room.

Richie had to wait two minutes until the curse relaxed its hold. When the two minutes were up, his legs gave out. He folded to the floor.

** **

~

** **

Richie didn’t make it back to Biology. When the bell rang to signal the end of the period, he finally pulled himself together enough to stand up. He leaned against one of the desks. The noise from the hallways began, growing louder as kids spilled from their classrooms.

Richie couldn’t breathe.

He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt, trying to scrape off the remains of Hockstetter’s spit.  _ Oh God _ , he thought to himself.  _ Oh  _ ** _God_ ** . Hockstetter  _ knew _ .

Richie couldn’t breathe.

Hockstetter knew, and it was as though every one of his fucked up, sadistic dreams had come true. What was he going to  _ do  _ with Richie?

Richie could remember a day back in Freshman year, when he and Eddie had run into Hockstetter and Bowers behind the school. The two older boys had been by the road, and Hockstetter himself was crouched in the gutter. Bowers had been looking over Hockstetter’s shoulder, a combination of fascination and revulsion on his face. Richie and Eddie had done their best to scurry by without drawing attention, and luckily for them, the older boys’ attention was fixed on whatever they were looking at in the road. As they passed, Richie stole a quick, morbidly curious glance at whatever it was that was so interesting.

He’d regretted it immediately. Hockstetter was looming over the remains of a cat that had been run over by a car. With horror, Richie had realized that it must have just happened; the cat was still alive. Blood pooled out around its twitching body, drying tacky on the asphalt. The accident had ripped open the poor creature’s belly and its tiny guts were spilled out in squiggles of blue. Hockstetter had a stick in his hand. With the tip, he was methodically pulling at the cat’s exposed innards, dragging more and more intestine out onto the road. The cat was jerking, squealing, already dying but unable to get away.

Richie had grabbed Eddie’s hand and run for it.

And now Hockstetter knew about his curse.

Richie couldn’t  _ breathe _ .

He clutched at the desk, black spots swirling across his vision. He forced himself to suck in a deep breath, holding it before releasing it in a shaky gasp. He made himself do it again, and again until his legs stopped shaking.

_ I can’t meet him tonight _ , he thought.  _ I can’t. He’s going to fucking kill me. Stan. I have to find Stan and get him to _ — but his thoughts were cut off there as the curse roared to life, doubling him over like a sucker punch to the stomach.

“No,” Richie said, nearly sobbing. “No, no, nonono.” He remembered Hockstetter’s words now. 

_ (Don’t even try to think about weaselling your fucking frog-face out of it _ .)

“No,” Richie moaned again. He shook his head as though he should shake Hockstetter’s voice right out of his mind. He pushed his glasses up his nose, twisted his fingers together while he blinked back the wetness in his eyes. His hands brushed the flaky remains of Hockstetter’s spit on his chin, and all at once Richie couldn’t stay in that room a second longer.

He wasn’t sure how he made it to the bathroom. Nobody stopped him in the halls, though Richie couldn’t say whether it was because the halls had been empty or whether Richie’s own expression had scared away the kids lingering in his path. Had second bell rung? Richie didn’t know. He burst into the bathroom and caught himself on one of the sinks, gasping. He whipped off his glasses and splashed water from the tap onto his face, cleaning away the traces of saliva. He scrubbed at his skin, then worked up the courage to examine himself in the mirror. Water dripped from his cheeks. His eyes were wide and scared under the shitty sodium lights. He looked as terrified as he felt.

“Fuck,” Richie said. His voice broke.

He wiped his face with a paper towel, then went to find his backpack that he’d left in Mrs. Huxley’s classroom.

** **

~

** **

“Wh-where’d you go, d-d-dude?” Bill demanded at lunch.

Richie hunched his shoulders as he slid his tray onto the table. “What do you mean?” he asked, stalling. 

“You n-never came back t-to B-b-biology!” Bill said. “I th-th-th-thought Mrs. Huxley was gonna give you d-det-detention for a m-month. Sh-she was so p-pissed.”

“Right,” Richie said. “Uh, no, um, it was nothing.” He did a rapid scan of the cafeteria, but he didn’t see Hockstetter or Bowers, or Butch, or any of the rest of their crew, for that matter. Richie’s heart seized.  _ What if Hockstetter told Bowers? _

“That-t’s all I get?” Bill demanded. “‘It was n-n-nothing?’”

“Don’t worry about it,” Richie said, barely listening. He wondered if he sounded as desperate as he felt. His mind was only half on the conversation — the other half had started a deafening countdown. It was 12:30 now. Four and a half hours left. “What’d I miss in Biology?”

“N-nothing really. Mitosis. Ethan Vivaldi fell asleep t-t-towards the end, which was f-funny, but Mrs. H-huxley didn’t notice.”

“Oh, cool,” Richie said. He looked down at his lunch tray. There was a gelatinous mass of something there. Was it supposed to be pasta? It didn’t feel like pasta when Richie poked it with his fork. It felt more like what Richie’s bones would probably feel like after Hockstetter had finished chopping him into little pieces. Or finished making Richie chop  _ himself _ into little pieces. God, that couldn’t happen, right? The curse had to have some sort of self-preservation switch. Except that Richie definitely would have jumped off that bridge yesterday when Bowers yelled at him, which meant that there wasn’t any sort of fucking self-preservation switch, and Hockstetter could probably make Richie eat his own balls and Richie would do it with a smile if that’s what Hockstetter told him to do. 

Richie clamped his teeth into the inside of his lower lip and forced his mind as blank as he could make it.

“Dude.” Eddie snapped his fingers in front of Richie’s face. Richie jumped.

“What?”

Eddie frowned at him. “I said your name like three times. What’s with you?”

“ _ Nothing _ ,” Richie snapped. He poked at his pasta again. 

“Did s-something hap-p-pen when you l-l-left Biology?” Bill asked. His voice was heavy with concern, and that only made Richie feel worse. He couldn’t look at Bill. He  _ definitely  _ couldn’t look at Stan. If he did, he would blurt out everything, tell him— 

The curse exploded through his mind, stopping the thought before it could form and making Richie’s hands fly to his head to hold it together against the pain.

“What the hell!” Eddie yelped, even as Stan leaned forward across the table, demanding “Richie, are you alright?”

The pain died, but Richie knew that he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t pretend to be normal for his friends, not when his chest was being squeezed tight with terror. He couldn’t stop seeing Hockstetter’s hungry, delighted eyes, like dark gashes in his lean face.

Richie shoved back from the table, shrugging away Stan’s hand as Stan tried to grab his shoulder. “Sorry, guys,” Richie mumbled. “I’m just feeling super sick.” He did his best to look nauseated. It probably worked, given how his stomach was heaving up and down, bucking like a goddamned bronco. “I think I’d better just go home.”

“Wh-what?” Bill said. “B-but you were f-fine this m-m-morning!”

Eddie was already leaning away from him, his expression both sympathetic and revolted. “Ohmygod,” he said. “It could be one of those bugs that hits super suddenly. They make you like, puke your guts out, no matter what you eat.”

Richie nodded. “Yeah. I do feel like my insides want to be on my outsides.”

He wasn’t sure how convincing he was, but Eddie was on a roll now. “My mom told me about this guy once,” Eddie said, “who couldn’t eat for a  _ whole week _ . He went to the hospital, and they put this tube down into his stomach to feed him. But even with the fucking tube down his throat, he just kept throwing it up and finally they had to take the tube out before he choked on it, and they had to feed him  _ intravenously _ —”

“A-alright Eddie,” Bill interrupted. “I-I think w-w-we get the p-picture.”

Richie grabbed his stomach. “Well, I don’t want to get you guys sick,” he said.

“Yeah dude, your face is pretty fucking pale,” Eddie told him, still leaning away. “Like, whiter-than-my-mom’s-sheets pale.”

Eddie believed him. Of course he did, it was  _ Eds _ . If anyone was going to buy a bogus sickness story, it was Eddie. Bill had fallen for it too, Richie could see from the way his eyes were worried even as his shoulders relaxed. Richie wasn’t losing his mind, he was just sick. Just your average Trashmouth with a bit of germ-induced weirdness to explain the morning.

There was only one member of the group who didn’t believe him. Richie glanced at Stan, who was staring at him with a hard, grim expression. Richie looked away at once. He knew his poker face wouldn’t be able to stand up to Stan’s scrutiny.

Even as he thought this, Stan got up from the table. “I’ll take you to the nurse, Rich,” he said. “Eddie’s right, you look terrible. And you didn’t even take the opportunity to make a joke about Eddie’s mom’s sheets.”

Richie shook his head. “No need, Stanly-the-Manly,” he said quickly. “I can get there myself, no need to expose yourself to my poor, contagious presence.”

“I’ll risk it,” Stan said, and Richie’s heart sank. He knew that look on Stan’s face. Stan wasn’t taking no for an answer. He shuffled his feet for a moment, wondering if he could force himself to vomit there and then, just to prove his fake sickness, but he doubted it.

“Oh, alright,” he said at last. He tried to infuse his voice with its usual, silly jauntiness. “Take me away then, Prince Stanley. It’s not every day a beautiful princess such as myself gets swept off her feet and taken to the kingdom of the Nurse’s Office. Do you think Nurse Hilla will officiate our wedding?”

He could tell Stan wasn’t buying it. Richie didn’t blame him, the joke sounded forced even to his own ears.

“Feel b-better, Richie!” Bill called after them, as Stan led them out of the cafeteria.

Stan waited until they were halfway down the hallway before grabbing Richie’s arm and pulling him to a stop. His brown eyes bored into Richie’s. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You’re not actually sick, are you?”

Richie squirmed in his hold. “No, I definitely am,” he said. “No doubt about that, Stanley.”  _ Sick, cursed, _ he thought.  _ What’s the difference, really? _

Stan’s grip tightened on his arm. “Bullshit,” he said. “I know you Richie. I know when—” he broke off, checking the hallway was empty before lowering his voice to go on. “I know when the curse is bothering you,” he said. “When it’s hurting you. Bill said that you vanished halfway through third period. Something happened, didn’t it?”

“Nothing happened!” Richie insisted. Too many conflicting feelings were tangled inside him. He felt his heart swell with love for Stan, who had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out Richie’s problems. At the same time, he wanted to strangle Stan for being so goddamn stubborn. But Stan was also smart, maybe smart enough to figure out that Hockstetter— 

Richie cut off the thought as the curse ripped viciously through his head. He didn’t flinch this time, but he could feel the remaining blood leave his face as tears sprang to his eyes. He swayed, and Stan’s hand on his arm became a support rather than a restraint.

“Richie?” Stan asked anxiously. “You, uh…”

“Gonna be sick,” Richie gasped. “Nurse’s. Now.”

Luckily, Stan, who hated any sort of mess, puke included, took Richie at his word. They all but sprinted together to the nurse’s office, where Nurse Hilla took one look at Richie and immediately put aside her issue of  _ Better Home and Garden _ magazine. She ushered Richie through the reception and into the single private room at the back, where Richie sat on the padded exam table. Stan hovered nearby, watching as she checked Richie’s temperature and measured his pulse. 

“Hmm,” she clucked. “Your heart is beating a little fast, but you don’t have a fever. You say you feel nauseous?” 

Richie nodded. He hardly noticed her fussing over him. He was hyper-aware of Stan’s worried presence next to him, and could feel his concern like radiation on his skin. He wasn’t sure whether he was happy Stan was sticking around or not. A large part of him just wanted Stan to go back to lunch so Richie could have a breakdown in peace.

“Do you feel any pain?” Nurse Hilla asked him.

“My throat,” Richie lied. “I think it might be the flu coming on or something. I really don’t feel good.”

Nurse Hilla tapped her fingers against her lips, studying his face. Richie could see his own reflection in the window of the nurse’s office: his cheeks were white, and his eyes were bruised and dark. He thought he seemed pretty damn sick, and it appeared Nurse Hilla thought the same. After a moment, she stood from her chair.

“Alright,” she said. “Even if there’s no fever, it’s not worth keeping you at school if you are catching something. We don’t want it spreading to the other students. I’ll get the phone so you can call your parents.”

She went out.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Stan moved in front of Richie, ducking his head to catch Richie’s eye when Richie tried to avoid his gaze.

“Rich?” Stan asked softly. “You know you can trust me, right? You don’t have to keep anything from me.”

_ Oh, Stan, _ Richie thought.  _ If only you knew how terrible this all was _ . He couldn’t say it though. Instead, he forced a smile. “I know, Stan,” he said. And then, as he so often did, he spoke without thinking, which was probably the only reason he was able to say it at all. “I wouldn’t keep anything from you, if it was up to me.”

Stan’s eyebrows scrunched together. He opened his mouth to say something, but Nurse Hilla was already bustling back into the room with the school’s cordless phone. “Here you are,” she said, pressing the phone into Richie’s hands. “I hope one of your parents is free to come pick you up.”

Richie snorted, but Nurse Hilla took it for a sneeze. “God bless you,” she said. She looked at Stan, still standing to the side of the exam table. “Thank you for bringing your friend by,” she told him. “There’s not much else you can do here. He’ll be just fine. You’d better go finish your lunch, the bell will ring soon.”

“But—” Stan said.

“No, no,” Nurse Hilla said firmly. She began shepherding Stan towards the door. “I won’t have you hanging around, using your friend as an excuse to get out of class. I see it all the time, young man. I’m too old to have those tricks pulled on me.”

“I’m not—” Stan protested, but Nurse Hilla was relentless. She scooted him out into the hall.

“You’ll see your friend soon, I’m sure,” she said, and shut the door in his face. 

** **

~

** **

Of course, nobody picked up at the Tozier household when Richie tried to call. It didn’t matter. Richie talked into the receiver as though his mom was on the other end and handed the phone back to Nurse Hilla, saying that his mom would meet him outside to drive him home.

Nurse Hilla didn’t bother to stay with him after that. She walked him to the front of the school and left him outside the doors, disappearing back inside to her home improvement magazines. Richie waited until she was gone before settling his jacket on his shoulders and walking away. 

Four hours to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, if you didn't, if you have comments or questions or just want to chat, hit me up in the reviews! I love hearing feedback, it is my lifeblood <3 
> 
> Next chapter will be up next Sunday! Or Saturday, depending on if I jump the gun again. Thanks for reading!


	4. Part Four - 1991: The Dump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hockstetter stepped away from Richie, smirking so widely Richie thought it was a miracle his face didn’t up and split down the middle. “Tozier,” he said. “Smile like you’re happy to be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends! Happy Sunday!
> 
> Thank you everyone who commented, I am so sorry that I haven't gotten around to replying yet! It's very strange to me that my responses show up as their own comments, and I was trying to figure out a way where that wouldn't happen - so if anyone knows of a way, I'd love to know :) - but thanks for your patience.
> 
> Alright guys, this chapter gets rough. Very rough. Please, please take care of yourselves. Trigger warnings: graphic violence, injuries, non-graphic sexual assault, gay slurs (f-word). If anyone doesn't want to read all that, skip from when Hockstetter says "Smile like you're happy to be here," all the way down to "When Hockstetter finished, he shoved Richie away with the toe of his boot." I'm not going to post a summary at the end of the chapter because it would only be a re-cap of the warning list.

The sun was beginning to dip towards the western horizon when Richie finally turned his steps towards the dump. He hadn’t gone home. He’d spent the hours leading up to five o’clock in the Barrens, lying on his back in the clearing where he and Bill had played cards together only yesterday. Had it only been yesterday? Richie couldn’t quite believe that. Nothing was the same.

Twice, he had tried to think of a way out of meeting Hockstetter. Only twice. The first time, he’d remembered the zip ties that Bill’s father kept in their garage for construction projects. He wouldn’t be able to get out of those himself once those were tightened. Hard to go to the Dump when you couldn’t walk. He could swing by Bill’s, go home, and then— 

_ (don’t even think about weaselling out of it) _

A horrific bolt of pain had blasted through his head, sending him reeling. If he hadn’t been sitting in the grass, he probably would’ve fallen over. Richie clutched his head in his hands, groaning, and forced the thought away.

The second time hadn’t been much better. An hour or so passed, and Richie found himself picturing his mother’s medicine cabinet. He knew she kept a little bottle of pills up there — hell, it was impossible to talk to Maggie and not realize she had a bottle of pills stashed somewhere. He could go, take a couple, and knock himself out until— 

This time, he had to bite down on the scream that rose up in his throat. The curse nearly ripped the thought out of his mind before he could finish it, and he curled up in the grass, cradling his head, and waited for the pain to pass. The sun sank lower. Richie forced his mind blank and tilted his head back, watching the new leaves rustling in the trees above him, and felt his hands shake. He knotted them together over his stomach.

Every so often, his carefully constructed calm would crack.  _ He’s going to kill me,  _ he would think, hysteria rising in his throat. His hands would shake harder than ever, and he twisted his fingers together so tightly that they turned purple and white.  _ He’s going to kill me, and I can’t even do anything but lie here and wait for him to do it. _

Not for the first time, he wondered what he’d done to make his parents hate him this much. They had to have known, right? Known that this would happen. Maybe not Hockstetter specifically, but they must have known that they were leaving Richie to the whims of anybody who came his way. Right? Richie knew the answer. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the prickling of tears he could feel behind his eyelids. Of course they knew. And they had cursed him anyway, which meant that they just didn’t care.

Stan cared, Richie reminded himself. And Eddie and Bill would too, if Richie had ever gotten up the balls to let Stan tell them. They probably would have reacted the same way Stan had. Richie could remember Stan’s face perfectly, all those years ago on Stan’s lawn with the evening sunlight lying orange across the grass. His angry mouth, downturned at the corners. His eyes, wide like an owl’s, hard despite their wet sheen, and the spots of red standing out on his cheeks.

Richie pictured Eddie and Bill looking like that. He wasn’t sure if the image comforted him or scared him.

He stayed in the clearing as long as he could. He had the vague idea that, if he didn’t check the time, five o’clock might pass him by without him realizing and leave the curse with no traction to work with. But as the sun fell lower and lower, an itching urgency grew under Richie’s skin, and he knew, with a sort of mute horror, that five o’clock was approaching.

Richie fought the curse for as long as he could, but in the end he gave in, as he always did. With his bones still aching, he hiked through the Barrens and headed for the dump.

Hockstetter was waiting for him.

** **

~

** **

“Hey there, Fuckface,” Hockstetter said. He was grinning as Richie came to a stop in front of him. Their shadows were cast long and spindly across the gravel lot by the sun at their backs. Trees rustled behind them, but they were too far away to hear the chattering of the Kenduskeag from its bed deep in the Barrens. The chainlink fence guarding the dump loomed behind Hockstetter. Beyond that, Richie could see the hulking mass of the dump itself. A faint breeze blew across the lot, lifting both boys’ hair and carrying the thick odor of rot and garbage.

“Patrick,” Richie said.

Hockstetter looked like he was restraining himself from jumping up and down with excitement.

Richie spoke with a tongue that felt numb with terror, which — of course. Of course he talked. Richie would go to his grave talking, Bill always said. “I don’t know what you’re thinking,” he told Hockstetter. “But whatever you’re planning, have you considered just not doing it? You might seriously regret this. I’m a  _ person _ , Patrick. You can’t do whatever you like to someone else.”

Hockstetter shrugged. “Not in my experience.”

“Don’t do this,” Richie pleaded. He wasn’t above begging. It made him want to squirm, somewhere inside, but he’d read a lot of books with brave, stoic characters. They never begged, not even when some evil asshole was about to separate their head from their shoulders. Richie always thought the authors of those books didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about. Living was worth a lot more than pride, and a lot of those characters seemed to end up dead. All Richie could think about was that fucking cat with its guts splattered across the road. “Please, Hockstetter. Just let me go. There can’t be much fun in it for you with a kid who can’t fight back, right? Where’s the thrill?”

Hockstetter barked out a laugh. “I could order you to fight back,” he said, eyes glinting. Richie swallowed. “But,” Hockstetter continued, “I don’t really care about that.”

“Jesus Christ, you really are crazy,” Richie said. “You are ten fucking pounds of crazy in a five pound bag.”

Hockstetter’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t even know what I’m planning to do,” he said, affecting a pout. “You’re the one getting all worked up over nothing.”

Richie thought of the cat with its intestines hanging out of its belly. “I know enough to say you’re not planning anything good for me,” he said.

Hockstetter dropped his pout as the smile returned to his face. “Well, maybe,” he said.

“Patrick, please.” Richie tried to keep his tone firm and reasonable. Like Bill when he had to explain to Georgie that he was _ not allowed  _ to jump off the roof onto their trampoline. It wasn’t working; Richie could hear the tremble in his voice. He clenched his fists, fighting the fear fluttering and scratching in his stomach. “I know we don’t have a great history, or anything, but you have to let me go.”

Hockstetter giggled. “I’m not the one who has to follow orders, am I, Trashmouth? That’s  _ your _ job.”

“Patrick—”

“Shut up,” Hockstetter said. His patience appeared to be at an end. Richie’s mouth clicked shut, and Hockstetter smiled. “That’s better,” he said. He stepped closer. Richie thought about running, but knew there would be no point. He wouldn’t get ten yards before Hockstetter’s voice would bring him back.

“Let’s try this again, and I’ll speak slower this time so you can understand,” Hockstetter said amiably. “I’ve always known you were a little bitch, Tozier. This—” He tapped his fingers on Richie’s chest, where his t-shirt covered the brand over his heart “ —only proves my point. I’m doing you a favor, Fuckface. I’m putting you to some use, which is really all you’re good for. Isn’t that right? Let me hear you say it.”

His words wrapped around Richie’s chest, squeezing him like a giant hand. Richie gritted his teeth. Hockstetter smirked at him, waiting, watching as Richie fought the increasing pain and lost. “It’s all I’m good for,” Richie gasped out.

Hockstetter beamed, eyes on Richie’s face. “That’s right,” he said. “All you’re good for. It’ll probably feel good to know you’re finally worth something, won’t it? Tell me how good it will feel. Tell me how much you’re looking forward to it.”

There was a pause, broken only by Richie’s strained breathing. “It will— It will feel good,” he finally choked out. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“I thought so,” Hockstetter said. His face was lit from within, so excited it made Richie want to throw up. “Follow me,” Hockstetter ordered.

** **

~

** **

Kids in Derry had been sneaking into the town dump for as long as Richie could remember. The caretaker, Barry Dwight, had given up trying to keep them out years ago, too lazy and apathetic to look for the holes in the chain link fence where kids came in with bolt cutters. Hockstetter and Richie slipped through one of these gaps. Their shadows trailed behind them like starving dogs, thrown across the rocky ground by the setting sun. On the edge of the dump, decades of rusted cars had been piled together in rough aisles. The light bounced off bent fenders and dented hoods as Hockstetter led Richie between the first of the wrecks.

Once the cars had closed around them, blocking them from view except for narrow gaps at the end of the aisle, Hockstetter stopped. “This’ll work,” he said to himself.

Richie looked around, mind spinning. Could he dive between the cars? Maybe he could lose Hockstetter in this maze. If he jammed his fingers in his ears… But Hockstetter was already towering over him, his wide eyes fixed on Richie.

“No running off now,” Hockstetter told him and giggled, a high-pitched, unhinged noise. Then, to Richie’s horror, he raised his voice and called out, “hey, Henry! We’re here! Told you he’d come, didn’t I?” 

And Henry fucking Bowers appeared at the end of the row of cars. His stupid, blond mullet was greasy, and despite the cold and the lateness of the day he was dressed in a T-shirt with ripped-off sleeves that showed his muscled upper arms. He was scowling, but when his eyes landed on Richie his expression became confused.

Richie backpedalled so fast he tripped over his own feet, and Hockstetter had to haul him back upright by the collar of his shirt. “Was I not specific enough?” Hockstetter said. He frowned. “Don’t move, Trashmouth.”

Richie’s muscles locked together.

“What the fuck,” Bowers said, coming towards them, stepping around broken glass and scraps of twisted metal. “You tell me to meet you at the dump cause you had a surprise. Something fun. And  _ this _ was the surprise you got all worked up over?” He looked at Hockstetter, who was grinning broadly, then back at Richie. “Trashmouth Tozier’s one shitty surprise, Patrick. How the hell did you even get him here?”

Hockstetter seemed momentarily hurt, but he recovered and stepped behind Richie to put his hands on Richie’s shoulders. “Nah, you don’t understand,” he told Bowers, while Richie’s skin tried to crawl right off his body. “Trashmouth here has been keeping a secret from us.”

“Oh yeah?” Bowers raised an eyebrow. “What, he’s got a fag crush on me? Don’t get me wrong, I’m impressed you got him out here or whatever, I just thought there was gonna be something more, with the way you were talking.”

“There is,” Hockstetter assured him. “He ain’t got no crush.” He paused. “Well, not that I know of. You got a crush, Trashmouth?” He glanced at Richie, who glared at him. “Nah, I don’t think he’s got a crush.” he said. Richie wished he could scream.

“Well, then what the fuck is it?” Bowers demanded.

In answer, Hockstetter took one hand off Richie’s shoulder and, with the tip of his finger, pulled down the collar of Richie’s shirt until the brand over his heart was visible.

Bowers knitted his eyebrows together. “What is that?” he asked, squinting. “A tattoo?”

Hockstetter’s other hand came down to trace the outline of the brand, his arms bracketing like Richie in some fucked-up facsimile of an embrace, and Richie was sure he could feel Richie’s heart banging out a terrified rock-n-roll rhythm behind his ribs. “It’s a curse-scar,” Hockstetter said.

Richie watched the gears turn slowly in Bowers’ head. “You mean,” he said, eyebrows still scrunched, “Tozier’s been cursed?”

“That’s right.”

Bowers thought some more. His eyes narrowed, taking on an unpleasant gleam. “Cursed to do what?” he asked.

Hockstetter stepped away from Richie, smirking so widely Richie thought it was a miracle his face didn’t up and split down the middle. “Tozier,” he said. “Smile like you’re happy to be here.”

Against his will, Richie felt his lips pull back in what had to be the most grotesque smile since he’d watched  _ The Exorcist _ with Eddie last year.

“Like you mean it,” Hockstetter said.

Pain pricked under Richie’s skin and he willed the muscles in his face to relax, to soften, until his smile settled into something more natural.

“What the fuck,” Bowers breathed. He stared at Richie, stood there smiling while fear clawed at his throat and tears stung at the back of his eyes.

“Go on,” Hockstetter said, giggling again. He was like a little kid who knew he’d brought the best thing to pass around at Show-and-Tell. “He’ll do anything you tell him to. He can’t not.”

“Anything?” Bowers said, taking a step closer.

“Anything.”

Bowers tilted his head, considering. “Kneel down,” he finally told Richie.

_ Go fuck a duck _ , Richie wanted to say. He stayed standing for several moments, his knees locked as the pain of the curse grew.

“Why isn’t he moving?” Bowers said. “I said kneel, Fuckface!”

“Give him a minute,” Hockstetter said. “Sometimes he fights it. It’s hilarious.”

Richie gritted his teeth,  _ still fucking smiling _ . The curse spread, became a howling shriek inside him until at last his knees buckled. He knelt.

“Stop making that face,” Bowers said, and Richie dropped his smile at once, relieved. Bowers, on the other hand, was wearing a wild, excited sneer. “Lean forward, on your hands and knees,” he instructed.

Richie did as he was told. From the corner of his eye, he watched Bowers pause a step or two away. Bowers’ weight shifted. Richie realized what Bowers was going to do only a second before it happened, and barely had time to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his jaw in preparation before Bowers’ boot caught him squarely in the side of the head.

The world went a little bit fuzzy then. Pain exploded through Richie’s face and down his neck as his head snapped to the side. He fell to the ground, gasping through the pain, only vaguely aware of the sounds of Hockstetter and Bowers hooting with laughter above him. Fireworks were bursting behind his eyelids. His ears were ringing.

“...can’t believe…” Bowers was saying.

“...knows?” Hockstetter said.

Richie curled into himself. What were they saying? His head felt like it was going to split open and leak his brains all over the gravel. He could already feel his cheek and jaw beginning to swell. 

“...up!”

Someone — Hockstetter? — was grabbing the back of his shirt and hauling him to his feet. Richie swayed, blinking, and Hockstetter slapped his face lightly. “Jesus,” he complained. “Henry, you… fuck him up… really get going!”

Richie moved his hand to cup his jaw and missed Bowers’ reply. The dump was wavering around him, and he closed his eyes, willing it to steady. He would not pass out in front of these assholes.

“Tozier.” Fingers clicked in front of his face. He looked up at Hockstetter, who was frowning down at him. “...speak now. Can… hear me?”

“What?” Richie mumbled.

“Can. You. Hear. Me?” Hockstetter said loudly. Behind him, Bowers rolled his eyes.

“Yeah,” Richie said. His head pounded. He felt dizzy, but the ringing in his ears was fading into a background buzz.

Hockstetter huffed. “Jesus, Henry,” he said.

Bowers was smirking. He shrugged unapologetically. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time. I take it back, Patrick, this surprise is the fuckin’ tits.”

“Please.” With a massive effort, Richie forced his scrambled brains to work. “Please, you guys, just let me go.” He squeezed the words out through his aching jaw, but Bowers and Hockstetter only snickered.

“Aw, isn’t he just a- _ dorable _ ?” Hockstetter asked.

“I was going to say pathetic,” Bowers said.

“Please,” Richie said, flushing as his voice broke. Jesus Christ, Henry was right, he  _ was _ pathetic. “I won’t tell anyone, just let me—”

“For Chrissakes, shut up Trashmouth,” Bowers said. Richie’s voice died, and Bowers looked delighted. “God, I wish I’d known that trick earlier,” he said, laughing. “Who knew Trashmouth could be this much fun?”

A lump rose in Richie’s throat. He glared mutely at Bowers. What sort of sick fuck thought that this was  _ fun? _ This was Richie’s fucking life! Richie clenched his fists. His vision sharpened, narrowing onto Bowers and his dumb, impractical muscle shirt. The fear inside him didn’t disappear, but it did move aside to make room for a sudden rush of anger. Bowers and his gang had been making Richie’s life miserable for years, and now this? Where the fuck did these guys get off? What gave them the right to make Richie’s shitty life even more unbearable?

Bowers’ laughing, weasel face was turning back towards Richie, his blue eyes lit from behind with savage excitement. Richie could see the pimples dotting his nose and cheeks, the puckered scars where Bowers had popped them over the years. Bowers’ nose was scrunched as he grinned, and the gel was losing its hold on his hair, allowing his limp bangs to hang over his forehand. Richie saw all this, and realized at that moment that he had never hated anyone in his life the way he hated Henry Bowers.

Richie didn’t register moving. He could blame his scrambled brains, or the fogginess lingering in his thoughts. Or maybe he was so scared, so fed up that his self-preservation instincts just decided to take a little hike.

As Bowers turned to him, Richie punched him in the face. Hard.

It was like punching a wall. It fucking  _ hurt _ . Richie had never punched anyone before, and he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. A movie finish, maybe, with Bower’s spinning around a full half-circle before falling to the ground. A crunch of bone and blood flying in a satisfying arc. A groan of pain, certainly. But Bowers was apparently built like a brick shithouse — Richie had forgotten that he lived on a farm. There was a reason kids didn’t fight back against Bowers. Bowers was thin, but muscles corded his arms like whips from the work he did for his dad. He stepped back when Richie hit him, more out of surprise than anything, and shook his head like a dog shaking water out of its fur. 

Despite that, Richie grinned. Even if he was about to die, at least he’d done one good thing in his life. 

His good feeling did not last long. Bowers recovered in seconds, and then he was tackling Richie to the ground before Richie could even begin to brace himself. Richie landed hard on his back, and the air rushed out of his chest in a solid  _ whoosh _ . 

“You little bitch!” Bowers screamed. He scrambled to get on top of Richie, and Richie had no doubt that he would’ve beat Richie’s face to a pulp if Hockstetter hadn’t dragged him off.

“Wait!” Hockstetter was shouting. Richie struggled to suck air back into his lungs. 

“Get off of me!”

Hockstetter gave Bowers’ shoulders a hard rattle. “Stop it,” he said.

“He fucking punched me! I’m not gonna sit here and take that!” Bowers was nearly snarling. “No loser hits me unless he wants to shit blood for a week.”

“Henry, come on, of course we’re gonna fuck him up, that’s why we’re here in the first place. Just think for a moment, would you? He  _ cursed _ . You can fuck him up the same fucking was as you do every time, or we can have some fucking fun with him. We can’t do that if you beat him unconscious!”

At last, Richie’s lungs remembered their job. He gasped in a breath and rolled onto his side, wrapping his arms protectively around his ribs. Hockstetter glanced down at him, then up at Bowers with a raised eyebrow.

Bowers crossed his arms, looking sullen. “Why the fuck does it matter?” he asked. “Fuckface can’t run away. Isn’t that the whole point?”

“No. Where’s your imagination?”

Bowers scowled. “I’ve got imagination,” he snapped.

Hockstetter shook his head, and for the first and only time, Richie agreed with him. Bowers was about as imaginative as a side of beef. He hadn’t been held back a grade because his ninth grade teacher had enjoyed his company. “Look,” Hockstetter said. “We’re gonna have fun. That was the whole point of the surprise. But think of what we can do. Think of what we can  _ make him _ do.”

Bowers glared, not understanding. He clearly didn’t appreciate being made to feel stupid.

“Here, I’ll show you what I mean,” Hockstetter said. He looked down at Richie, who had worked his way to sitting and was staying as quiet as he could. A part of him had hoped that Bowers might get pissed enough to leave, or fight with Hockstetter so that Richie could find some way to slip off. But no dice. Hockstetter crouched down beside him. Too late, Richie scrambled backwards, gravel digging into the palms of his hands. “Stop moving,” Hockstetter told him.

Richie froze.

“Good boy.” Hockstetter smirked. He pointed to the ground at his feet. “Come here. Kneel down.”

Richie came, flinching when Hockstetter put out a hand to ruffle his hair. “F-” Richie started to say, but snapped his mouth shut when the curse dug painful hooks under his skin. He could feel Bowers’ eyes on him, watching intently.

“Good,” Hockstetter repeated. He left his hand on the top of Richie’s head, holding a fistful of Richie’s hair. When Richie tried to duck away, he tightened his grip and yanked Richie around to face Bowers. “First,” Hockstetter said, “apologize to Henry for hitting him.”

Richie shuddered but met Bowers’ gaze. “I’m sorry for hitting you,” he rasped.

Bowers bared his teeth. It seemed like he might say something, but at least for now, Hockstetter was running the show. “Good boy,” Hockstetter said. “Now, shut up again.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a Zippo lighter, grinning down at Richie. “I think you need a little lesson on attacking your betters,” he said. “Something that’ll really stick. Take this lighter and burn your hand until I tell you to stop.”

Richie felt the color leave his face. He shook his head as Hockstetter held out the lighter. Beyond Hockstetter, Bowers was sniggering, but Richie didn’t hear him. The blood was pounding in his ears, and his eyes were locked on the lighter. The curse hummed and jangled, growing more insistent as the seconds stretched.

Hockstetter waggled the lighter. “Now, Fuckface.”

Richie took the lighter. He flicked it open, and a tiny orange flame sprang to life, glowing bright in the gathering dusk. Sometime in the last few minutes, the sun had dropped behind the horizon, leaving the sky a bruised violet. From the nearby Barrens came the sound of evening birdsong. Richie stared at the fire, watching it stutter as the hand holding it trembled. The curse swelled inside his chest, its discomfort growing into a discordant shriek of pain. 

Richie held his other hand over the flame.

The relief from the curse was instant, and Richie couldn’t help the sigh that escaped him, but his relief didn’t last long. Within seconds, the heat from the lighter burned against his palm. Richie sank his teeth into his bottom lip, biting back a shout he wasn’t allowed to voice, as the skin directly above the flame grew tight and red. Pain shot through his hand and up into his wrist. He could feel a blister starting to form. After what couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds, Richie couldn’t stay still any longer. He jerked his hand away from the flame, whimpering low in his throat.

The curse burst to life, making his chest seize around a silent scream. Tears swam in his eyes, and he hurriedly put his hand back over the fire. The pain of the curse receded. He breathed deeply, until the burn in his hand became an unbearable throb and he pulled it back again, only to thrust it forward a moment later as the curse surged forward.

He didn’t notice Hockstetter’s leer. “See what I mean?” Hockstetter asked Bowers. Richie yanked his hand bank from the lighter, stifling a sob, and missed Bowers’ response. Pain from his palm was beginning to spread, stabbing into his fingers and up into his wrist. He cradled his hand against his chest for the span of a few seconds, the tiny flame reflecting light off of the rim of his glasses. Then the howl of the curse became too much and he returned his hand to the fire. 

“Just think about it,” Hockstetter was saying. “We can do anything. He wouldn’t even be able to tell anyone.”

Bowers shoved his hands in his pockets, admiring but reluctant to show it. “I gotta say, Patrick, I knew you were fucked up but I never realized what a crazy son of a bitch you are.”

Richie snatched his hand back to his chest, gasping. A sheen of sweat had sprung up all over his body, and he nearly dropped the lighter as a tremor went through his unharmed hand.

Hockstetter stopped smiling. “Don’t you fucking talk about my ma that way,” he said, his voice ugly.

Richie put his hand back over the lighter. The skin on his palm was turning a strange, greenish-white.

Bowers lowered his eyebrows, his jaw jutting out. It seemed like he might snap at Hockstetter, put him in his place for talking back like that, but the next moment he raised his hands in a grudging apology. “Sorry man,” he said. “You’re right. Mom’s are off-limits.”

A groan slipped out from behind Richie’s teeth as he pulled his hand away from the lighter. It was like the other two boys had forgotten he was there. The sound drew their attention, and suddenly Hockstetter was laughing again.

“Whoops, sorry about that Trashmouth,” he chuckled. “Stop that before you burn your hand off.”

Richie dropped the lighter. Without waiting to see what Bowers and Hockstetter would say next, he curled forward, cradling his right hand in his left. His breaths came in thin wheezes from his chest. Distantly, he was almost impressed that he hadn’t screamed yet, despite the warnings from the curse. He felt as though acid had been poured across his palm.

“Aw, c’mon Four-eyes,” Bowers said. “What a fucking baby.”

Hockstetter squatted down beside him. “Let me see,” he ordered.

The curse screeched, and Richie quickly held out his burnt hand.

Hockstetter took it, examining the burst blisters and discolored skin. Richie wanted to throw up. His palm looked…  _ loose _ , like it might peel away in strips if Richie closed his fist. Hockstetter made a  _ hmm _ noise. Then he pressed his thumb firmly into the center of Richie’s palm, and the world whited out. 

Curse or no, Richie definitely screamed that time.

** **

~

** **

When the world came back, it must have only been seconds later. Richie was slumped forward over his knees with Hockstetter still crouched in front of him. His hand felt as though an iron rod had been driven through it. It… didn’t look much better. Richie had to swallow down a sudden feeling of nausea at the sight of his palm, which was a mangled mass of gray skin, white blisters, and red blood.

“Gross,” Hockstetter said. He wiped his thumb — also red — on the collar of Richie’s shirt and stood up. His casual tone was belied by his eyes, which were glassy and bright as he looked down at Richie. “I wonder if all skin acts like that. Or do you think it ever just melts? Melts right off like pig fat?” He must have seen the terror in Richie’s face

_ (he wouldn’t he wouldn’t make me do that) _

because he snorted and waved a hand as if to dismiss the idea.  _ Later, maybe _ , that wave seemed to say.

“Alright, I get what you’re saying,” Bowers said. Richie jumped — he’d almost forgotten that Bowers was there, standing behind Hockstetter as the shadows darkened and the first few stars glimmered into view. He shouldered Hockstetter to the side to plant himself in front of Richie. “Takes a bit of the fun out of it though, if he’s just sitting there whimpering.”

Richie trembled, tucking his burnt hand in close to his chest.  _ Sorry to take the fucking fun out of it _ , he wanted to say.  _ Trade ya places, maybe you’d put on a better show. _

Bowers was looking down at him, like a surgeon deciding where to cut. “You know,” he said to Hockstetter, “I don’t know that Trashmouth here has really shown that he’s sorry for hitting me.”

Hockstetter smirked, but nodded gravely. “Yeah. You should probably get him to make it up to you somehow.”

Bowers grinned. “So true. Are you sorry, Trashmouth? I don’t think you are. Answer me.”

“I’m sorry,” Richie whispered. His voice came out as a croak.

“Hmm. Not very convincing,” Bowers said. “I think you’d better show me just how sorry you are.” He stepped sideways, until his hip hit the hood of the nearest junker and he could lean back, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking an eyebrow. He propped one boot on top of the other. “Come over here, Trashmouth. You’re gonna lick my shoes clean until I’ve decided you’ve learned your lesson.”

** **

~

** **

Richie couldn’t tell how long they kept him there. Perhaps halfway through, his mind simply shut down, and he shrank into a small corner of his own consciousness, watching helplessly as Hockstetter and Bowers had their fun.

They ordered him to bark like a dog on his hands and knees. 

He did.

They chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes, and ordered him to put them out on his own arms. 

He did.

They found a twisted crowbar among the junked cars, and took turns finding new places to hit that made Richie scream. They ordered him to thank them after every hit.

He did.

“God,” Hockstetter giggled, as Richie shivered in front of him. Tears slid silently down his cheeks, and the smell of his own burnt flesh clung to the inside of his nose. “You’re just like a fucking doll aren’t you? Just a pretty doll that stays in whatever position we put you.”

“Jesus Christ, gay much?” Bowers said, but it did give him the idea to order Richie to stillness while he flicked open his knife and carved a pattern of lines across Richie’s upper back. When Richie was allowed to pull his shirt back on, blood drenched the fabric and dripped down to soak his waistband.

Once the moon was hanging high over the trees, Bowers finally called it quits. “I’ve gotta get home,” he told Hockstetter. “My Dad’ll flip his lid if he realizes I’ve been out all night.”

“Alright,” Hockstetter said. He glanced at Richie, who was kneeling again, white with pain, his lips pressed together and his vacant eyes looking off somewhere into the depths of the Barrens. “Doesn’t look like Dollface here can stand much more anyway.”

Bowers snorted and clapped Richie on the shoulder, pressing down when Richie flinched away. “Yeah, we don’t want to wear him out, do we?”

“Yeah, see how much fun he’s been having?” Hockstetter said, laughing. “Haven’t you, Dollface?”

Richie fixed his gaze on the gravel at his feet. 

Hockstetter leaned down to ruffle Richie’s hair. “Aw, don’t be like that,” he said. “We’re just doing you a favor. Showing you how good you can be. Don’t you like it when we make you useful for once? Like a good little doll.”

“Man, that’s so messed up,” Bowers said. “Why do you even talk to him like that?”

“Like what?” Hockstetter said.

“Like, I dunno, like  _ that _ . Your voice gets all weird and high.”

Hockstetter didn’t say anything, only looked at Bowers with his wide, glassy eyes.

Bowers shifted uncomfortably. “Whatever man,” he said at last. “You need a ride home? I’m outta here.”

Hockstetter glanced down at Richie. “Nah,” he said, and Richie bit his lip to keep from screaming. “I think I’ll hang out here for a little longer.”

“Whatever,” Bowers said again. “Just don’t break him, yeah? I want to be around when Fuckface loses it for good.” Hockstetter made a noncommittal noise, but Bowers didn’t press him. He vanished between the cars, and the sound of his footsteps on the gravel crunched away. A minute passed. Then Richie heard the low roar of Bower’s car kicking into gear, and Bowers was gone.

Richie was alone with Hockstetter.

Richie had never imagined any situation where he’d actually want Bowers to stick around, but he’d found one. He tried to shrink into himself, darting a glance at Hockstetter out of the corner of his eye. His knees ached where they pressed into the ground. He felt as though he’d been here for days. Years. What more could Hockstetter want?

“Look at me,” Hockstetter said. Richie did as he was told. Hockstetter’s face was inscrutable in the moonlight. The chasms of his eyes were black, and his cheekbones drew strange shadows down his cheeks. When he smiled, the whites of his teeth glinted. “Are you scared, Dollface?” he asked. His voice was soft. “Tell me the truth. Just that.”

Richie bit his lip until the tang of blood filled his mouth. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Good,” Hockstetter said. He sauntered over the the car where Bowers had leaned earlier, watching Richie lick the dirt and cow shit from the soles of his shoes. Now, Hockstetter turned and propped his own butt on the hood of the junker. “Come here,” Hockstetter ordered.

Richie moved to get to his feet, but froze when Hockstetter barked out a sharp “no!” Richie looked at Hockstetter, confused.

“On your knees,” Hockstetter said. Richie sank back down, his abused knees protesting as they retook his weight. “Come here,” Hockstetter repeated, “on your knees.”

The curse prickled, burning under Richie’s skin. He dug his nails into the thighs of his jeans, and walked on his knees over to where Hockstetter was waiting. Hockstetter’s pupils were blown. Richie looked up at them, and an uneasy shudder worked its way down his back. He didn’t like Hockstetter’s expression. It was different from before, when he and Bowers had been fucking with Richie together. There was something almost nervous there now. Something crafty.

“Did you know,” Hockstetter said, “that I’ve jerked Henry off right over there?” He blinked, and Richie jerked backwards, tearing his gaze away from Hockstetter’s black pupils.

“ _ What? _ ” Richie demanded, and he was so startled that he formed the word and pushed out the  _ wh _ \- before the curse tightened his vocal chords and left him gasping through a bolt of pain.

Hockstetter laughed. “Yeah. Wouldn’t have guessed that, would you, Dollface?” He leaned back on his arms, as unconcerned as though they were discussing the weather. “Henry didn’t even know what to do at first. Pussy. Not like he didn’t realize what was going on.” He sniggered, and Richie wondered when the fuck he’d stepped into the mirror-verse of his life, because seriously? Hockstetter and  _ Bowers _ ? This was like some weird episode of the Twilight Zone, except instead of aliens or living mannequins, it was Hockstetter having some freaky crush on Henry Bowers and then confiding this fact in  _ Richie _ . Maybe Richie had hit his head and this whole night was some wild fever dream. That was a happy thought.

“Henry insists he’s not a fag,” Hockstetter continued. Richie stared at him, his mouth hanging open, but Hockstetter ignored him. “I said ‘yeah, sure pal. Just give me a second to wipe your jizz off my hand.’” His glazed, luminous eyes flicked down to Richie, and he leaned forward, a smile on his lips. “See, the thing is, Henry might be all freaked out about anything queer, but I’m smarter. A fuck’s a fuck, no matter where it comes from.”

Richie was abruptly, horribly aware of where he was kneeling; in between Hockstetter’s legs, with his face at the same height as Hockstetter’s crotch.

He reared backwards, scrambling to get to his feet. For a moment he forgot about the curse, the pain all over his body, the exhaustion pulling at his bones. Terror swept them to the side as Hockstetter’s hands clamped down on his shoulders to keep him in place.

“Stay still,” Hockstetter said. He giggled his fucking high-pitched giggle, and reached for the buckle on his belt. “Aren’t you pretty on your knees?”

Richie’s rational mind whited out.  _ No _ , he thought,  _ no fucking way, no  _ ** _fucking_ ** _ way,  _ ** _move _ ** _ you fucking waste of space, don’t let him fucking  _ ** _touch _ ** _ you I swear to God—  _ His legs quivered, trying to stand. His muscles tightened, and the curse  _ shrieked  _ inside him, driving him back down, and Hockstetter’s belt was open and he was unbuttoning his jeans— 

“I bet you’re a virgin, aren’t you?” Hockstetter asked him, and Richie could barely comprehend the question. Hockstetter’s voice was so goddamn  _ cheerful _ . Hockstetter paused to grip Richie’s chin, forcing him to lift his head and meet Hockstetter’s eyes. “Well, you know what they say,” he said. He bared his teeth in what could only distantly be called a smile. “You never forget your first.” 

His hands went back to his jeans, and Richie squeezed his eyes shut. There was the sound of a zipper being pulled down.

“Open up,” Hockstetter said. “And watch the teeth. No biting.”

** **

~

** **

When Hockstetter finished, he shoved Richie away with the toe of his boot. 

Richie couldn’t find the strength to break his own fall. He sprawled on his side, and gravel bit into his skin. His insides felt as though they had been scooped out. Hollowed. Sucked out like a milkshake through a straw.  _ Maybe Patrick will kill me now _ , he thought, and was ashamed by the relief he felt. A terrible taste lingered in his mouth. His jaw, swollen from Bowers’ kick, screamed from the unnatural stretch.

“Hm,” Hockstetter said from above him. “Not bad, for your first time. I should’ve guessed, with those lips you’ve got.” He laughed, tucking himself away, and Richie put his uninjured hand over his ear in an attempt to block out the awful sound. “What do you say, Dollface? Ready for some practice sessions down the road? Talk.”

For once, Richie wished he could have just stayed silent. It was a night of firsts, it seemed, and the thought made a lump grow in his throat. But Hockstetter had given him an order, and Richie couldn’t disobey. 

“Leave me alone,” he whispered. “Please.”

Above him, Hockstetter straightened from the hood of the car. “So touchy, Dollface,” he said. “You’d think with all those dumb jokes you make, you’d be happy to finally get some action.” 

“Go away,” Richie breathed into the dirt.

A hand landed in his hair and yanked Richie upright. Hockstetter’s bulging eyes were only an inch from his face, and Richie flinched backwards, letting out a sound of pain as Hockstetter’s fingers dug into his scalp. “You don’t give the orders here,” Hockstetter purred. 

Didn’t Richie fucking know it.

Hockstetter dropped Richie with a dismissive gesture. “What would your friends think if they could see this?” he asked. His gaze slid over Richie’s face, lingering fondly on his mouth. “Imagine what their faces would look like if they knew how good you are at sucking dick. I bet those losers would love to know that Trashmouth Tozier spends his time crying on his knees. I bet they wouldn’t even look at you, once they found out.” He stretched his arms over his head, and a series of crackles sounded as the vertebrae in his back popped. He brushed off his jeans, as unconcerned as a man getting home from a long day at work.

Richie… didn’t know how to respond.  _ He made me do it _ , he wanted to tell himself, but

_ (Don’t you like it when we make you useful?) _

what did that matter? Hockstetter was right. How would his friends look at him, if they knew what he’d done? 

A boot nudged Richie in the ribs. “Man, you are just too much, Dollface,” Hockstetter said. “Addicting, you know that? I should thank your parents for gift-wrapping you like this.” 

The words sank into Richie’s chest like stones through still water.

There was a crunching noise as Hockstetter moved away across the gravel. “Goodnight, Dollface!” he called. The sounds of his footsteps grew fainter. It took too long until they faded altogether. 

Richie stood slowly. The world spun, black spots dotting his vision until he squinted his eyes shut and took several, ragged breaths. His head pounded from Bowers’ kick. His hand felt like it was still on fire, and the cigarette marks along his forearms burned dully. His entire body ached. His jaw ached. The line of his shoulders where Bowers had sliced into him was at least going numb, but that might’ve been from the cold. Richie couldn’t tell anymore. Hockstetter had pulled off his jacket at some point, and Richie stumbled over to where it lay, dusty and crumpled between two junkers. He started to pull it on. His hands left bloody streaks on the fabric, and suddenly the jacket split in two, tearing unevenly down the middle. Richie held up the two pieces. Moonlight shone through the rents in the fabric where, whether by the tire iron or Bowers’ knife, the threads had been shredded. An improbable laugh burst from Richie’s throat at the sight.

“That’s gonna be a bitch to clean up, isn’t it?” he said to himself. His voice was rusty and small in the quiet night. It fell without an echo between the ranks of wrecked cars, but it felt so damned good to talk again that Richie kept going. “Can’t let Mom see that, no sir, she’d have kittens. A whole litter. Hell, two litters.”

Without his coat, and with nothing else to focus on, the wind bit sharper than ever. Richie was shivering, but he stuck his uninjured hand under his right armpit and tucked the burned one close to his chest. His first few steps sent the world swaying, and the pain in his head seemed to double. He stopped, leaning against the nearest junker and taking short, quick pants until the ground steadied.

“No time for that, m’boy,” he said to himself. His voice slipped, became an Irish brogue for half a second before breaking completely. Richie kept talking. “Nothing a brisk walk won’t fix!” he declared. “Best cure for concussion’s to walk it off, as I always say. I’m not spending the night in this fucking dump, nope, no fucking way.” He pushed himself off of the car. His face felt wet, which was strange because it wasn’t raining. “That’s it,” he told himself. “One foot in front of the other, any fucking toddler can do it. I’m going to get home to my own bed and then I’m going to sleep for three months straight.”

He staggered out from between the cars, heading for the break in the fence. Gravel skidded out from under his shoes. The stars glinted white above him. “Three whole months,” he repeated. “And when I wake up I’m gonna eat an entire pizza all by myself, and Eddie and Stan and Bill and I will watch scary movies together all night until we’re pissing our own pants.” He slipped through the fence, grunting as his shoulders snagged against the sharp chain link. 

The trees lining the edge of the Barrens looked different in the moonlight. Their branches seemed thinner, somehow, twisted together like wire. He glanced down the road leading away from the dump, the one that wound along the outskirts of the Barrens for three miles or more before turning towards Derry proper. A hundred yards away, where the big sodium lights of the dump faded out, blackness crept along the blacktop. Richie looked back towards the Barrens, towards the shorter trail that would lead him back to Kansas Street. From there, it was a half-mile or so to his own neighborhood. A midnight stroll, really. Except, well…

The trees swayed in the wind, young leaves rustling. Somewhere between the trunks, two branches knocked together, and Richie jerked away from sound. He peered between the trees, eyes straining against the darkness, but saw nothing. There  _ was  _ nothing.

“Get a fucking hold of yourself,” he said. “Fucking baby, afraid of the fucking dark now?”

He limped into the undergrowth, following the same trail that he’d followed earlier that afternoon. His nails dug into the palm of his unburnt hand, and he kept his gaze focused on the ground in front of him, refusing to look at the shifting shadows around him.  _ There’s nothing there, you asshole. _ Trailing branches slapped at his face.  _ There’s  _ ** _nothing there_ ** , he told himself. “Who the fuck would be wandering around here in the middle of the night anyway,” he muttered. “Except for kids like me.”

For some reason, the thought of another kid like him — cursed, beat up, wandering around in the woods like an idiot — made him laugh. “We could compare notes,” he said. “Maybe start a fucking club. Party of two.” The ground sloped uphill, and after a dozen yards he emerged onto Kansas Street, still rambling to himself. “I wonder if we could get matching T-shirts. ‘Smash Club,’ they could say. And when people ask, ‘oh, what’s that mean? Some sort of demolition group?’ we can say, ‘no way, the only thing getting smashed around here is our own—’”

“Hello?”

Richie didn’t scream, but it was a close thing. He whirled around, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest, and immediately regretted the action when the ground bucked beneath his feet and his head throbbed in protest. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

On the road — which he had thought, at first glance, to be empty — a slight figure stood from where it had been sitting on the sidewalk. Richie squinted, uninjured hand pressed against his aching head, and saw a flash of red hair in the moonlight. For a moment, his heart leapt, 

_ (Bill?) _

but then the figure moved forward and Richie saw that it wasn’t Bill at all. 

“Beverly?” he asked, stunned. “Beverly Marsh?”

“Richie?” She came closer, and it  _ was _ Beverly, the girl who sat in front of Bill in math class. Her long hair was loose down her back, and her freckles were dark against her cheeks.

“What—?” Richie floundered for words. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to. “What are you doing out here?”

Beverly folded her arms over her chest. “I could ask you the same thing,” she said defensively, and Richie winced at her loud voice. His nerves felt as though they had been dragged over razor wire for the past several hours, and this surprise meeting wasn’t helping. What the hell was Beverly Marsh, who lived on the opposite end of town, doing so far down Kansas Street in the middle of the night? 

“Sorry,” he said, taking a step back. He just wanted to be in his fucking bed. “You’re right, none of my business, I’ll just—”

“No,” Beverly said, cutting him off. She looked oddly stricken, but Richie chalked that up to the angled shadows playing across her face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bit your head off.”

Richie shrugged. Her eyes followed the motion, taking in the hand tucked against his chest, his purpling and swollen jaw, and his thin t-shirt. He probably looked like some half-crazed lunatic who’d been wandering around in the woods for a week.

“Are you… are you okay?” she asked, wincing at the feeble question. “You… you’re bleeding.”

Richie fidgeted. “Oh, uh, yeah. It’s no big deal,” he said. “Just a series of unfortunate events, you could say.”

From Beverly’s expression, he’d been about as convincing as Georgie with his hand stuck in the cookie jar.

“Really,” Richie hastened to add. “Slap some bandaids on me and I’m good as new.” He flashed her a shit-eating grin.

“Where’s your coat?”

“Uh. I didn’t want one?”

Beverly frowned at him. He shivered again, then cursed at himself and fucking Maine nights for being so cold in the springtime. “Here,” Beverly said. She thrust her arms out at him, and Richie stifled a yelp. “Take it,” she insisted.

Richie looked down at the coat she was offering him. “Um. What?” he said.

“Take it!” she said, shaking the coat. Her eyes blazed so fiercely that Richie didn’t have the courage to argue. He took the coat.

“Uh. Thanks,” he muttered. He put it on, and had to bite back a moan as the chill of the wind was replaced by downy warmth. He resisted the urge to rub his cheek across the soft material. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at Beverly. “Say, how come you’re just hanging around out here with a spare coat?”

Though it was hard to tell in the darkness, he swore he saw Beverly blush. “None of your business,” she said. “So just drop it.”

Richie thought he might howl as the curse snapped awake at her words. He couldn’t go five fucking minutes without someone telling him what to do? “Yes ma’am,” he said, swallowing down the foul feeling in his chest. He thought he heard something then — a whisper? A buzz? — but it died away before he could pinpoint it. A foreign pressure tickled across his mind. He shook his head, the pain from his concussion flaring, and thought he saw Beverly flinch from the corner of his eye.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Y-yeah,” she said. She swung her arms awkwardly. Now that she was no longer holding the coat, it seemed she didn’t know what to do with them. She settled for wrapping them around her waist. “You should get home though,” she told him. “Find some… bandaids.”

Richie’s mouth twisted. “Yeah. I think I will.” He started walking, then stopped and looked back. “Thanks again for the coat.”

“Don’t mention it,” Beverly mumbled. Her green eyes were gray and unfathomable in the starlight.

Richie considered her for a moment. “You’re a weird girl, Beverly Marsh,” he decided.

Beverly stiffened. “What the hell is that supposed to—”

“I didn’t say that it was a bad thing,” Richie interrupted. He turned and limped towards home.

** **

~

** **

His parents were out, and Richie wasn’t sure whether he wanted to cry or not when he saw the empty driveway. He fumbled his key out of his pocket and missed the keyhole on his first two tries. His hands were shaking. When he nudged open the door and stepped inside, the entranceway was dark.

“Mom?” he called anyway. “Dad?”

The house creaked in answer.

They were probably up in Bangor for the night, Richie thought. Or Maggie had gone and joined Wentworth for the rest of his business trip out West. Maybe Maggie had left a note on the fridge explaining. Maybe not. The house felt very vacant, and very large.

Richie didn’t bother turning on the lights. He took the stairs with feet that dragged, as though he was wearing cinder blocks strapped to his shoes. In the bathroom, it took him five minutes to work his shirt off over his shoulders. The blood from the slices Bowers had given him had dried tacky, sticking the fabric to his skin. He pulled it off one-handed, gritting his teeth as the shirt tore free and new blood trickled down his back. Miraculously, impossibly, his glasses had made it through the night. He set them down on the bathroom sink, blinking as the world went fuzzy. He examined his blurred image in the mirror. Without his glasses, he was just a vague, Richie-shaped outline.

“I bet you look like a fucking mess,” he told the Richie-blob. “What’s—” His voice broke again and he cut himself off, rubbing his face with his unburned hand. His eyes were wet, and he scrubbed at them. “Buck the fuck up,” he whispered. But no matter how many times he knuckled the tears from his eyes, more came to take their place. He put his hands over his face.

_ (What would your friend’s think, if they could see this?) _

The sob broke from Richie before he could stop it, and once it had escaped, it was as though a wall had splintered inside him. Richie’s chest heaved. He sank to his knees on the bathroom floor

_ (Aren’t you pretty on your knees?) _

and hugged his arms around himself, crying, softly at first. Then, harder, as the exhaustion and fear crashed over him in a black wave, dragging him down until he drowned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woof, alright. Sorry everyone. Things will... well, they won't get better for a bit, but I do promise they will get better! This was the roughest chapter in terms of abuse, so I guess there is that?
> 
> If you liked it, if you didn't, if you have comments or questions or just want to chat, hit me up in the reviews! I love hearing feedback, it is my lifeblood <3


	5. Part 5 - 1991: The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dude,” Eddie hissed. “What the hell happened to you? I thought you were supposed to be sick!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends, and happy Sunday!
> 
> Alright, here we go, another chapter. This one is a bit of a bear, definitely the longest so far, so I hope you all enjoy :) Uh, sorry in advance. Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and reviewed!! I literally have a mini-heart attack every time someone leaves a review, so you all are absolute heroes. Also, sorry for the weird formatting with the indentations -- I'm not sure why it's doing that, and I'll try to find time tonight to fix it.
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: Gay slurs (another use of the f-word), non-graphic descriptions of past sexual assault, panic attacks, violence. An aggressive over-use of italics. If I left anything out, please feel free to let me know so I can put it in the list.

When Richie opened his eyes the following morning, he didn’t move for long minutes. He was lying on his stomach, his burned hand stretched outside of the blankets and resting palm-up on the mattress. He could see his clock from where he lay, but the numbers were too blurry to read without his glasses, even when he squinted. From the weak spring sunlight falling in through his windows, it was late morning, or maybe even early afternoon. Richie squeezed his eyes shut. He definitely wasn’t making it to school today.

It was another immeasurable stretch of time, staring at the dust motes that were caught and suspended in the light coming in through the windows, before Richie could bring himself to move. Gingerly, he rolled over onto his side and sat up. He winced at the grinding pain that flared through every part of him.

“This,” he said to himself, “is going to be a spectacularly shitty day.” He paused, then after a moment of contemplation, added: “Oh, goodie.”

He looked at the floor, fascinated by the whorls in the hardwood. More minutes ticked by. Still, Richie couldn’t find it in himself to stand.

The night before, he’d done his best to bandage what he could — which, admittedly, wasn’t much. He’d found a tube of aloe vera gel in Maggie’s drawers, and spread it over his hand and the cigarette burns on his arms. He’d covered the smaller scrapes with bandaids. He’d considered searching for her little bottle of orange pills that he knew she kept somewhere, because damn if he couldn’t have been the poster-boy for painkillers right then, but he’d discarded the idea after only a moment. He didn’t want to spend the energy searching, and besides, Wentworth kept a cabinet in his study that Richie already knew was full of bourbon. Groaning, Richie had limped downstairs, grabbed the first bottle that his fingers touched, and taken four long pulls, coughing as the bitter liquid burned down his throat.

The extent of his self-nursing had ended there. He couldn’t do much else. The slashes across his upper back and shoulders were too difficult to reach, and he didn’t have the first idea of what to do about the deep bruising left from the tire iron that Hockstetter and Bowers had beat him with. Nothing was broken, anyway,

_ (he was pretty sure nothing was broken, anyway) _

and by the time he’d fallen into his bed, a light tingling from the alcohol had dulled the pain enough that he could slip into a semblance of sleep.

He’d slept without dreams. Perhaps his body had been too overwhelmed to conjure up any images from his subconscious, which was a mercy Richie hadn’t expected and didn’t want to question. Despite that, although he wasn’t sure how long he had slept for, he could feel that it wasn’t enough. His eyes were gritty. He could stay in bed, he supposed. Attempt to go back to sleep and give his body the time it needed to heal, but even as the thought came to him, he knew that was no answer. The moment he’d woken, his brain had started whirring,

_ (“Aw, isn’t he just a- _ ** _dorable_ ** _ ?”) _

and he couldn’t have sat in bed with his own thoughts if you’d paid him.

“Up you get, m’dear,” Richie whispered. His southern belle’s lilt sounded flat today.

As he swung his feet to the floor, a heavy vertigo overtook him, and a reverberating, bass drumbeat pounded through his head. He closed his eyes, breathing in short, sharp pants through his nose. He wasn’t sure if the headache was due to the probable concussion that Bowers had given him or from the bourbon last night, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been a combination of both. He didn’t much care. He didn’t know the first thing about caring for a concussion, but he had a sense that he’d be needing that bourbon again before too long.

Eventually, the pain in his head receded to bearable levels, and the room stopped spinning. He stood for a moment in front of the mirror, grimacing at his reflection. “Just as Ah thought,” he said under his breath, voice still raised in that southern twang. “You’re a fuckin’ mess, hoss.” 

The boy in the mirror was pale as a sheet. One side of his jaw was swollen and purple, the cheek so puffed up that his left eye was almost closed. The other was sunken into its socket, peering out at Richie like a winking glass bead.

_ (Like a doll’s eye) _

His hair was sticking out all around his head in a messy halo, and he stood stiffly, one hand tucked against his chest. A spot of dried blood still clung in the crevice of his nose. 

_ Who the fuck is that? _ Richie thought.  _ Because it sure as fuck can’t be me. _

He was glad his parents weren’t home. Maggie would be sure to throw a fit if she saw his face. She’d probably blame him too, as if it was his fault that Bowers had introduced his boot to Richie’s skull.

_ (as if it was his fault that Hockstetter had jostled it later, clenching Richie’s hair in his fist and stretching Richie’s jaw wide—) _

Richie looked away from his reflection.

He spent the rest of the day lying on the couch in the living room, staring unseeing at the television as he flipped from channel to channel. He’d retrieved the bottle of bourbon from Went’s study, but after several slugs when he’d hobbled downstairs, it sat untouched on the coffee table for much of the time. Richie’d found that, if he didn’t move too much, the bone-deep bruises on his torso and thighs didn’t hurt too badly. Nevertheless, he turned the volume on the T.V. as loud as it could go. The noise filled the house, driving away the echoing silence that inhabited the too-large spaces and drowning out any thoughts that tried to enter his head.

At around five o’clock, the phone began to ring. Richie muted the television, listening to the harsh  _ brring-brring-brring-brring _ until the answering machine clicked over. Too late, Richie tensed. Most likely it was only a social call from one of Maggie’s friends, or a salesman peddling new dishwashers. But

_ (what if it’s Hockstetter what if it’s Bowers oh God what more can they make me do) _

the voice that came through the machine was familiar.

“H-h-hey, Richie,” Bill said, words distorted through the tinny speaker. “We hope you’re f-feeling better. W-we know you weren’t a-at school t-today, so w-w-w-w-w-” Bill’s stutter lengthened, rattling like a machine gun. Richie could imagine the tendons standing out in Bill’s neck, muscles straining with frustration as Bill tried to spit out the word.

“We just wanted to check on you since you were so sick yesterday!” Eddie shouted into the phone.

“Yeah,” Bill said. “Y-you d-didn’t sh-show up so we were worried.”

“Very worried!” Stan called. “You didn’t look good at all.”

“He might be sleeping, if he didn’t answer,” Eddie said in the background. “That’s probably best.”

Stan shushed him.

“A-anyway,” Bill said. “We h-hope you’re feeling a-al-alright. You didn’t m-m-miss much, exc-cept for G-gretta dropping her lollipop in Betty Ripsom’s h-hair.”

“It was gross,” Stan said. “They had to cut it out with scissors.”

“S-super gross,” Bill agreed.

“Gretta swears up and down it’s an accident,” Eddie said, and Richie could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “Like anyone believes that.”

“W-well, the teachers d-d-do, obviously,” Bill said. “Sh-she didn’t even get d-d-detention.”

“Our school system is corrupt,” Eddie said.

“I m-mean, that’s a lih-little dramatic—”

“What about when she wrote ‘slut’ all over Beverly Marsh’s locker last year in lipstick?” Eddie demanded. “Did you see her in detention then?”

“Well, n-n-no, but th-there wasn’t a lot of ev-evidence—”

“Yeah, cause so many people wear bright purple lipstick to school,” Eddie muttered. “Hard to narrow down the suspect list.”

“ _ Anyway _ ,” Stan said. “We just called in case you were feeling up to it, but I guess it makes sense that you’re not. You didn’t seem too great yesterday.”

Richie rolled over on the couch, hugging one of Maggie’s throw pillows to his chest and staring at the phone.

“Yeah!” Eddie said. “Make sure you’re drinking lots of fluids, and if you’re nauseous or anything let me know because my mom bought be a buttload — and don’t you dare start to make a joke, you asshole — of anti-nausea pills when I got a stomach bug over winter break, so I’ve got tons of extras.”

“And I c-can bring over y-your math h-h-homework from t-today if you w-want it,” Bill said. “I p-picked it up f-f-for you at the end of class, b-but if you’re going t-t-to b-be at sch-chool tomorrow I c-c-can just hold ont-to it f-for you until then.”

Richie clutched the pillow tighter, swallowing against the prickling feeling behind his eyes. 

Stan was speaking. “We hope you’ll be feeling well enough to come to school tomorrow,” he said. “And I know your parents can get, uh, busy, so if you need someone to come over and make you some soup or something, you can call me. Or just come over, if you want. My parents don’t mind.”

“M-mine wouldn’t ei-either,” Bill put in.

“Yeah, just don’t come here,” Eddie said. “My mom would freak.”

Bill snickered, and Richie heard an “ow!” and a scuffle, as though Eddie had elbowed him in the ribs. “R-rude,” Bill muttered.

“Feel better!” Eddie shouted at the phone.

“B-bye, Richie!” Bill said.

“I hope you’re taking care of yourself,” Stan said. “Bye, Rich.”

The phone beeped as the line disconnected. The tape reel spun, clicked, and ground to a halt, leaving silence in the living room that settled like dust over the furniture. Richie sank back onto the couch, watching the blinking red light on the side of the phone that indicated a new message. The air in the room sat like a dead thing. Without a conscious decision, Richie stood up. He looked at the blinking red light, then crossed the room to replay the message.

_ (“H-h-hey, Richie”) _

His injured hand burned under the clumsy swathe of bandages that he had taped over it. He scrubbed at his eyes with his other hand, listening to his friends as they talked over one another. When the recording finished, he rewound the tape and listened again. 

Outside, the sun dropped behind the low hills, and the sky grew darker.

~

Richie couldn’t find his appetite, and he crawled into bed that night having eaten nothing all day. He fell asleep around eight — maybe the earliest he had gone to bed since leaving second grade — but he was tired to the bone. His hand was throbbing, and the various bruises left by the tire iron were aching fiercely. Though he had done nothing all day but lie on the couch, he felt exhausted and wrung out, like an old dishrag finally starting to tear. Through some cosmic miracle, there were no dreams that night either, and he slept deeply. So deeply that he didn’t hear his parents’ car pull into the driveway later that evening, or the sounds they made around the house as they settled in after their trip.

He sure as hell heard Maggie the next morning though. A loud knocking on his door was all the warning he received before Maggie stormed in, her dark hair perfectly curled and her frowning mouth already shaped with lipstick.

“Richard Tozier, out of bed this instant!” she barked.

Richie jolted upright, his eyes bleary with sleep and the curse zinging along his nerves. He lurched out of bed, stumbling, and whacked his hip painfully against the corner of his dresser. The slices along the top of his shoulders tore open at his sudden movement, and a trickle of fresh blood dampened the back of Richie’s pajama shirt.

“Wha-?” he said, but Maggie was already towering over him.

“I have never been more disappointed,” she cried, in a terrible, vacant voice. “Never, Richard. When you were growing up I showed you nothing but patience. Nothing but love, like a good mother should. Your father works so hard to make sure you have nice clothes, food on the table, a good roof over your head. And despite all that, despite all of our efforts, it just doesn’t seem to be good enough! Look at the sort of man you’re becoming! I have a delicate constitution, and I love too easily, I know that. But I gave you my heart, Richard, and some days I’m afraid you’re going to break it for good!”

Richie struggled to blink the sleep out of his eyes, failing completely to follow along with Maggie’s train of thought. He was used to her dramatics, but not this early in the morning. And not when his body was hurting all over. He felt as though he’d been run over by a semi-truck. “Mom, what?” he asked, jumping on a break in the flow of words as Maggie paused for breath. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t interrupt me!” she bawled, and Richie forced his mouth shut. “And don’t play dumb with me, Richard! Your father got a call from your school this morning. You were absent yesterday! Playing hooky, like some layabout. Is that all our sacrifices have come to? Skipping school to run around with your no-good friends? I always knew they’d be a bad influence!”

Richie wanted to stop her. None of his friends had anything to do with this. Hockstetter and Bowers should be getting the blame, not Bill or Stan or Eddie. He wanted to tell her this, but her last command held him rigidly and he could only grit his teeth, making his bruised jaw spike with pain.

Maggie seemed to notice his swollen face for the first time. Her eyes grew teary. She stepped forward, taking his chin in one hand and turning his face to the side so she could see where Henry had kicked him, and Richie let her. Her palm was warm. Her fingers were soft. “Richard,” Maggie said, and Richie couldn’t help himself; he leaned into her hand, just for a moment, until she pulled it away.

“You’ve been fighting?” she demanded, and Richie flinched as her tone turned harsh.

“No, Mom—” he started.

“I can’t believe this!” she said. Her face crumpled, and she let out a dainty sob. “After everything we’ve given to you! And you just throw it all away! Where does this end, Richard? When you drop out of school? When you start doing drugs? When Went and I get the call from the police, letting us know we can visit you in Shawshank for the next five to ten years? I don’t know what to do with you, Richard, I really don’t.” She paused, one hand held over her face. 

Richie swallowed down every emotion that tried to rise up within him and kept quiet, waiting for her to compose herself. It had been a long time since he had seen his mom so mad. He wanted to point out that it was a bit of a career jump, from staying home sick to getting sent to prison upstate, but Maggie wasn’t thinking clearly right now, that was for sure. If Richie had to guess, he’d say she’d already opened her little orange bottle of pills this morning.

At last, Maggie drew in a deep breath. “When I leave, you’ll get dressed,” she told him. She lifted her face from her hands, and Richie saw her blotchy cheeks before she turned away from him. “You will never skip school again, do you hear me? You will go today, you’re already late. We’ll discuss this tonight, when I’ve had time to think.”

“Mom, I didn’t—”

Maggie spun on her heel to face him, her expression making Richie take a step back. “Not another word!” she shouted at him. “I have half a mind to forbid you from seeing those rotten friends of yours ever again!”

Richie felt the blood drain from his face.

“You never make anything easy, Richard! God knows Went and I tried to be good influences, but if you’re spending all your time with a bunch of future wastes then what else are we supposed to do?”

Richie shook his head frantically. She couldn’t stop him from seeing his friends, she  _ couldn’t _ . Richie would lose his mind. Words piled up in his throat, trapped there by her last command. He let out a whimper instead, a strangled sound that Maggie couldn’t hear over the sound of her own raised voice.

“Even when we got your Aunt Jaqueline to help, I thought that must be the end of it,” she said. “I didn’t want her to be involved at all. I told Went we could find another way. Magic and all that, it shouldn’t be necessary, not for—” She stopped herself, but Richie heard what she didn’t voice.  _ Not for a normal child. Not for a decent child. _ She recovered though, and kept speaking, her voice regaining the volume that it had lost. “You forced our hand, to try to mold you into the type of man who would succeed in the world! We did it all for  _ you _ , Richard, and somehow it wasn’t enough? I don’t understand!”

Richie wanted to clap his hands over his ears.  _ She’s high as a fucking kite _ , he told himself.  _ She doesn’t even know what she’s talking about anymore. _ It was true, had to be. Her eyes had that distant, gauzy quality, and even as she shouted, she sounded far away somehow. As though she was living behind a thick pane of glass.  _ She’s in fucking Wonderland,  _ he thought.  _ She’s caught the happy train. She’s toasted. I was fucking three, that doesn’t make sense _ . _ I didn’t make her do anything. _

_ (Did I?) _

Maggie crossed her arms as if to contain herself. She took another breath. “Get ready for school,” she told him, and the burning itch awoke under his skin. “Come home straight after classes are done, I don’t want you finding an excuse to stay late. I’ll decide your punishment for this later.” His feet were already carrying him to the bathroom as she swept off down the hall.

In record time, he was dressed and ready, and Maggie pointed him out the door as soon as he came downstairs. The front door shut behind him with a snap, and then he was standing on his own porch, blinking in the spring sun with his stomach grumbling and his body hurting. He hadn’t eaten since the day before yesterday, and Maggie hadn’t allowed him to grab any breakfast before shunting him outside.

He didn’t trust himself to bike, but he trusted himself to walk to school even less, so he hauled his bike out from the side of the house one-handed. He swung his leg over the seat, gasping as his thigh protested — Hockstetter had landed a solid hit there — and walked his bike to the end of the driveway.

_ No use putting it off, _ he told himself

_ (“Are you scared, Dollface?”) _

and, painstakingly, pedaled himself down the road.

~

The opening of the door stopped Ms. Hart-Meyers mid-sentence as Richie slipped into the room. Ms. Hart-Meyers was a young woman with blond hair that fell to her shoulders, and her green eyes always made Richie think of summer leaves. Her gaze fixed upon him as he paused in the doorway, first with disapproval, followed by a growing concern as she took in his bruised face. Alerted by her silence, the rest of the kids turned their heads to stare. Richie caught sight of Eddie’s fluff of brown hair towards the back of the rows of desks.

“Mr. Tozier,” Ms. Hart-Meyers said. “Nice of you to join us.”

A round of sniggers went around the room.

Ms. Hart-Meyers ignored it. “See me after class, please,” she told him. Her attention was lingering on his swollen jaw. “For now, you may take your seat.”

Richie nodded. He would have apologized, but Maggie hadn’t bothered to release his voice before sending him packing out the door, so he made his way silently between the desks until he could slump into the empty chair beside Eddie. Richie’s backpack dangled from one hand. He’d left it at school the day Hockstetter had decided to fuck over his entire life, which was an unexpected blessing. He wasn’t sure how he would have hauled it to school on his bike; he couldn’t wear it without the straps rubbing the cuts along the tops of his shoulders, which he’d discovered after retrieving the pack from his locker. Instead, he had to carry it with his unburnt hand.

As he dropped the bag to pull out his textbook, he became aware of eyes burning into his back. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Eddie gaping at him, taking in the bruise covering his face.

“Dude,” Eddie hissed. “What the hell happened to you? I thought you were supposed to be sick!”

Richie grimaced. He leaned down to grab a pen from his backpack and opened his notebook to a fresh page.  _ Don’t worry about it _ , he wrote.  _ You never told me your mom had a kinky side. For next time, tell her my safeword is “Lollapalooza _ . _ ” _ He slid the notebook to the side of his desk where Eddie could read it.

The look that Eddie shot him was so scathing that Richie felt his insides blister. Eddie pulled out his own blank paper.  _ Are you kidding me?  _ he wrote.

_ She’s a wildcat, Eds,  _ Richie wrote back.

Eddie shook his head.  _ Beep beep, asshole. What the fuck actually happened? _

Richie hesitated.  _ Just an accident,  _ he scribbled finally.

_ An accident? _ Eddie wrote.  _ As in, someone “accidentally” slammed your face into a wall five or six times? _

_ As in an  _ ** _accident_ ** , Richie wrote.  _ It’s fine. _

_ Dude, you are a shitty liar, _ Eddie wrote. He was scowling at Richie but ducked his head when Ms. Hart-Meyers’ gaze swept across their row. Richie had no idea what her lecture was even about.  _ You look like you had the crap kicked out of you. Are you alright? _ Eddie scribbled.

_ I’m not lying _ , Richie wrote back.

_ (I’ve been lying to you my whole life, Eddie-Spaghetti, I can’t be that shitty at it) _

_ I’m fine. Drop it _ , Richie wrote.

He flipped to his notes from the previous class and studiously ignored whatever message Eddie had written in response. He stared toward the blackboard, pretending to listen to Ms. Hart-Meyers while the fingers on his unburnt hand fiddled with his pen. Thank god Eddie hadn’t noticed the bandages wrapped around his palm, although it was only a matter of time. Suddenly, the prospect of going through the entire school day seemed exhausting. More than that, downright impossible. It was only second period. How the hell was he supposed to fend off Bill’s questions next period during Biology? And what was he supposed to do during lunch, when all three of his friends would team up, badgering him for explanations that he couldn’t give?

And then Richie realized something even worse.  _ Hockstetter  _ was in Biology with him and Bill. Richie would have to walk right by him to get to his desk. And — no. Richie could already picture how Hockstetter’s sallow face would light up at the sight of Richie’s bruises, at the backpack held in one hand with the sleeve of his sweatshirt pulled down over the other. Would he smile at Richie? Talk to him? Richie gripped his pen so tightly that the plastic groaned. What if Patrick gave him an order there and then? Why wait until the next time he got Richie alone? He could order Richie to do anything, and Richie would drop to his knees and do it, despite his classmates, despite the fact that Bill would be standing right there—

_ (“Who knew Trashmouth could be this much fun?”) _

_ _ _ _ _ (“Get ‘em nice and clean,” Bowers said, grinning, and the grit on the bottom of his shoes made Richie’s tongue sting, the taste of blood and dirt and cow shit in his mouth, and he wanted to retch—) _

_ (His own hands pressing against Hockstetter’s thighs for balance, his knees hurting from hours of pressing into gravel and the tire iron off to the side, gagging deep in his throat and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe) _

Eddie’s hand closed over his wrist. Richie’s entire body jerked, first backwards and away

_ (Hockstetter’s hands were in his hair, his words locking Richie’s bones together and he couldn’t get away, he  _ ** _couldn’t breathe_ ** _ ) _

but then forward, towards Eddie as Eddie’s warm brown eyes caught and held his own.

“Richie, breathe,” Eddie whispered, and it was only as the command settled into him that Richie realized his chest was tight and empty. His vision had gone dark around the corners, tunneling into one bright spot. Richie fixed that spot on Eddie and forced his lungs to fill in a shaky gasp.

“That’s it,” Eddie said. His voice was barely a murmur, barely carrying to Richie’s ears. At the front of the classroom, Ms. Hart-Meyers had her back turned and was writing something on the blackboard. “Just breathe with me.” Eddie inhaled and Richie imitated him, sucking air like he was drowning. Eddie exhaled and Richie felt his own breath rush out of him in a jagged wave. They did it again, and by the second exhalation Richie felt some of the warmth return to his skin. The blackness began to recede from his sight. Once more, and Richie was able to inhale without gasping like a dying man. Eddie’s fingers were strong and steady on his wrist.

“Mr. Kasprak!” Ms. Hart-Meyers’ voice broke through the cocoon between them like the butt of a knife smashing against an egg shell. “Would you like to tell me what is so fascinating about Mr. Tozier’s desk?”

Eddie jumped. His hand left Richie’s arm and he blushed crimson all the way up to his ears. “Nothing, ma’am,” he squeaked.

“Then there is no reason you can’t tell me the year that  _ Brown v. Board of Education _ was decided by the Supreme Court. What year, Mr. Kasprak?”

Richie didn’t think Eddie’s face could have gotten any redder, but he was proved wrong. Eddie looked like he wanted to crawl under the floor and die. “I, uh, um, was it, um, 1948?” he guessed.

Ms. Hart-Meyers pinned Eddie with the disappointed-but-unsurprised look that only teachers and priests could master. “It was 1954,” she said. “If you please, Mr. Kasprak, I would appreciate your attention at the board, if that is not too much to ask.”

Eddie slunk down in his chair, his face glowing pink. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

Ms. Hart-Meyers turned away from him, satisfied that poor Eds had been well and truly chastised. The kids in the class who had all swiveled to watch the show now settled back in their seats. Eddie kept his head ducked, but Richie managed to catch his eye anyway.

_ Thanks _ , he mouthed.

Eddie shot him a weak smile.

Richie spent the remainder of the class staring at the back of Eddie Corcoran’s blond head, forcing himself to breathe evenly and avoiding any thoughts of Biology, school, Henry Bowers, and especially Patrick Hockstetter. His fragile state of calm was broken when the bell rang, making him jump. He hadn’t noticed how quickly the time was passing.

“Remember to finish Chapter 21 for tomorrow!” Ms. Hart-Meyers called over the heads of her chattering students. “We’ll be discussing the end of the Civil Rights Movement, and there may or may not be a quiz on the material.”

Eddie was already packed and out of his chair, standing next to Richie’s desk with his small hands clasped over the straps of his backpack. A surge of dread filled Richie’s chest, and he scrambled to think of a cover story for his bruised face. Fuck, why hadn’t he thought of one earlier? There was no way Eds was going to let him off the hook without questions, especially after Richie’s mini-meltdown.

“Dude,” Eddie started. His eyes were like deer’s eyes, liquid brown and soft. Richie sort of wanted to curl up in them, but he shook that thought away. 

Eddie didn’t waste any time cutting to the chase. “What the hell is going on?” he said. “You can’t act like nothing’s happening with you.” He waited, giving Richie an opportunity to speak. 

Richie did not. For one, he didn’t know what to say — he hated lying to Eddie, but he sure as shit couldn’t tell him the truth. For another, nobody had yet given him an order vague enough to allow him to talk anyway. Instead, Richie avoided Eddie’s gaze and busied himself with packing away his things with his left hand.

When it became clear that Richie wasn’t chiming in, Eddie tried again. “I’ve never seen you have a panic attack before,” he said, keeping his voice pitched low. “I’m not an idiot, Rich. Were you even sick yesterday? What the hell’s going on with you?”

Richie shrugged uncomfortably, still not looking at Eddie. 

To his surprise, it was Ms. Hart-Meyers who saved him. “Mr. Tozier!” she said. Most of the other students had already left the room, and she hardly needed to raise her voice to be heard across the empty rows of desks. “Would you come see me at the front, please?”

Richie scrambled out of his seat, trying not to appear too relieved. He gave Eddie a “what can you do?” expression and tossed him a small wave before winding his way up to the front of the room. He heard Eddie hiss “we’re not done here, you know!” but Richie figured he would deal with that later.

He stopped in front of Ms. Hart-Meyers’ desk, where she was sitting with her elbows on the desk and her hands steepled together. Behind him, Richie heard the last few students — hopefully with Eddie among them — leave the room. Ms. Hart-Meyers didn’t say anything. Richie  _ couldn’t  _ say anything, so he let the silence stretch. The window beside Ms. Hart-Meyers’ desk was letting in a thin beam of sunlight, which shone off the scuffed wooden desktop and turned Ms. Hart-Meyers’ chin-length hair to gold where it touched the left side of her face. Though the classroom door was closed, the faint noise of teenagers flooding through the hallways was audible. Richie shifted, wondering if Ms. Hart-Meyers’ was planning on giving him a late slip for his next class.

Finally, Ms. Hart-Meyers broke the silence. She leaned forward, taking her elbows off the desk. “You’ve been awfully quiet today, Mr. Tozier,” she told him.

Richie gave a half-shrug.

Ms. Hart-Meyers scrutinized him, her eyes catching on the bruising over his jaw. “Your friend Mr. Kasprak told me at the beginning of the period that you were sick,” she said carefully. “Is that right?”

Richie nodded. He wasn’t sure where she was going with this line of questioning, but he didn’t need to wonder for long.

“I wasn’t aware,” she said, “of any strains of the flu that leave bruises as part of their symptoms.” Her gaze held him as he looked down, squirming. “Tell me, Mr. Tozier, have you been fighting?” she asked.

“No,” Richie said at once.

_ (It’s not fighting when you’re the only one getting hit) _

“It wasn’t anything like that, Ms. Hart-Meyers.”

Ms. Hart-Meyers made a humming noise in the back of her throat. “I see. No fighting? Not with any of the boys from school, or even a sibling?”

“No, ma’am,” Richie said. “I’m an only child.”

Ms. Hart-Meyers hummed again. “Would you like to tell me how you got that bruise, then?”

Richie flushed. “It was just an accident,” he said. Maybe if he repeated it enough, people would start believing it.

No dice on that yet. It was obvious that Ms. Hart-Meyers was not convinced. She sat back, shaking her head, and her hair rippled and swayed in the sunlight like corn silk. She examined him, her green eyes intent, and Richie did his best to look as innocent as possible. “Mr. Tozier,” she began again, and then paused as though deciding how to proceed. When she spoke, her words were delicate. “Mr. Tozier, how have things been for you at home?”

Richie blinked at her. “Uh. Fine, I guess?” he said.

“‘Fine’?” Ms. Hart-Meyers asked.

“Yeah, normal, fine, nothing to report, all that jazz,” he said. He made sure to keep his tone casual.

“And you have a good relationship with your parents?” Ms. Hart-Meyers pressed.

_ (“Magic and all that, it shouldn’t be necessary, not for—”) _

“Uh, yeah, as good as anyone’s, I guess,” Richie said.

“Hmm.” Ms. Hart-Meyers’ expression was grave and earnest. “Mr. Tozier, do you ever feel unsafe when you are at home?”

Richie recoiled. “What? No!” Unsafe? What sort of dumb question was that? Wentworth only got up from the kitchen table when he was either going to work or bed, and since Richie had shot up in the past year, he was taller and broader than Maggie. She wouldn’t be able to leave a mark like this on his face! Even if she wanted to, which she  _ didn’t _ . Sure, his parents tolerated his presence — Wentworth because he didn’t give a shit and Maggie because her word was law — but they didn’t actively hate him. “My parents would never hit me!” he told Ms. Hart-Meyers angrily. “That’s insane!”

Ms. Hart-Meyers looked uncertain. “Alright, Mr. Tozier, I didn’t mean to upset—”

“I can’t believe you would even ask me that!” Richie said. He glared at her. “Sure, maybe me and my folks don’t chum along all the time, but who does? That doesn’t mean they would smack me around!”

“I apologize if I—”

“I told you, it was an accident. That’s all. And even if it wasn’t, it sure as hell wouldn’t have been my parents!” Richie shoved his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking. Why the hell was he so upset? Ms. Hart-Meyers was looking at him calmly, her eyes searching his own. He decided that must be why: when the hell had she ever cared before? She didn’t get to pity him — she was  _ wrong, _ his parents would never hit him. Richie was sure of that. He realized that his breaths were coming harsh through his nose, and consciously forced himself to relax.

“I’m sorry,” Ms. Hart-Meyers said, after giving Richie a chance to compose himself. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. It’s my job to be concerned about my students.”

Richie decided to bite his tongue rather than delivering the snide comment that sprang to mind.

“You say it was an accident, so I believe you,” Ms. Hart-Meyers went on. “But I hope you know that I’m always here in case you ever need to talk to someone.”

“Right,” Richie muttered. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ms. Hart-Meyers sighed. “Well, go on to your next class then. I’ll write you a late slip.”

~

Richie was ten minutes late to Biology, and it was a good thing that Ms. Hart-Meyers had given him a late slip because Mrs. Huxley had obviously not forgiven him for failing to return to her class on Wednesday. She took his late slip with a sniff and waved him to his seat. Richie turned to make his way down the rows of desks and felt two pairs of eyes fix on him. 

He met Bill’s gaze first. Bill must have been warned by Eddie between the bells, because his jaw was set and his mouth was pressed into a flat line. He took in Richie’s bruised and swollen face with a grim expression, but he mustered up a half-hearted smile when Richie winked at him, so Richie figured he might be able to sweet-talk Bill off of the subject when Bill started asking questions.

Richie took his seat, refusing to glance across the room where he could feel the burning pressure of Hockstetter’s glassy stare following him. The weight of it dragged at Richie’s shoulders, making all his hurts — the cuts along his upper back, the burn on his hand, the smaller cigarette burns on his arms, the deep bruising hidden under his clothes — ache.  _ Don’t look _ , Richie told himself.

_ (“Let me see,” Hockstetter had ordered, digging his thumb into the gray-white burn on Richie’s palm, and then pain pain pain pain pain) _

_ _ _ _ Richie shoved away the memories and tucked his injured hand into his lap.

The rest of the period passed, thankfully, without any drama. Bill had the desk in front of him, which meant that Bill couldn’t pass notes without Mrs. Huxley catching him. Richie was glad of it. He didn’t need to fend off any questions or another panic attack at the moment, thanks. Besides, he’d already missed two days of Biology that week, and he was glad for the chance to start catching up. That was a bit surprising in itself, since Richie didn’t usually care if he missed a few days here and there. It wasn’t like he wanted to be a neurosurgeon or anything. But for right then, listening to Mrs. Huxley’s boring explanation of various magical inducements of cell growth that had recently been discovered, he supposed he could do with a bit of boring. It kept his mind occupied. Not once did Richie look over at the other side of the room.

Hockstetter’s eyes stayed on him for the entire period. Richie could feel their heat burning through his sweatshirt.

When the bell rang, Richie was up and out of his seat before Mrs. Huxley had even closed her mouth. He couldn’t risk Bill cornering him, and he  _ definitely  _ couldn’t risk Hockstetter getting anywhere near him. He felt like a rabbit, dodging from bolt hole to bolt hole.

“Except I doubt any rabbit has had to run from so many conversations,” Richie mumbled to himself as he elbowed his way through a group of chattering freshmen. “Slap a scut on me, I can be Bugs Bunny’s anxious recluse of a cousin.”

Fourth period French felt like the first good news of the day. None of his friends were in it, which Richie had whined about at the beginning of the year but now seemed like the greatest God-given miracle. Even better, none of Bowers’ gang was in the class. Richie slumped down in his desk at the back and allowed himself to relax, if only a little. No difficult inquiries or thinly veiled threats for a whole hour. Fucking heaven, it felt like. Except for his stomach, Richie was almost comfortable. He pressed a hand to his belly, trying to stifle its grumblings. He really wished Maggie had let him grab some breakfast.

Of course, at the end of this period was lunch, when Richie wouldn’t have any teachers to provide a buffer between him and his friends. He’d already told Eddie that the bruises on his face had gotten there by accident. He’d just have to run with that. He had to invent a story that would satisfy them enough that they’d leave it alone. 

But what the hell kind of story would be enough to fool Stan? Stubborn, intelligent, observant Stan, who’d worked out Richie’s secret years before anyone else, and could probably read him faster than a children’s picture book?

The teacher, a tall, lanky man with scuffed leather shoes and wispy brown hair named Mr. Lasseur, called the class to order. Richie hadn’t even noticed the other kids taking their seats.

“Bonjour, mons fils!” Mr. Lasseur said, but Richie was already tuning him out.

What story would Stan believe? Maybe if Richie told him he’d tripped going down the stairs? He had supposedly been sick yesterday anyway, it couldn’t be that much of a stretch that Richie had been woozy enough to fall and hurt himself. But then Stan would ask why Richie hadn’t called him or Bill or Eddie for help. And if Richie said he’d been too sick to call, Stan would surely ask him how he was so healthy today, after only a day to recover. So that lie wouldn’t work. He could tell his friends that one of his parents had accidentally hit him? Maybe Wentworth opened a door too fast with Richie standing on the other side, and Richie had gotten whacked.

Richie could already imagine Eddie’s skeptical tone.  _ “Your dad must have been working out sometime and I didn’t notice, Rich. Did he drop kick the door right into your face?” _

No, Richie supposed that lie wouldn’t work either. The bruise on his jaw was too dark, and no door could leave a shape like Henry’s boot had.

Well, he could just tell Stan it had been Henry’s boot.

Richie snorted to himself. Yeah, right. What, tell Stan that Henry and Hockstetter had caught him out by the dump? That was way too close to the truth. Stan would know that Richie was leaving something out. Plus, how would Richie explain being out when he was supposed to be too sick to come to school?

_ You could just tell him the truth _ , a quiet voice inside him whispered. Richie shook his head. No, that wouldn’t work. No. Hockstetter had specifically told Richie that he couldn’t tell his friends about Hockstetter working out his secret.

_ But he never said anything about Bowers _ , that voice piped up.  _ Or about what they did after. They left loopholes and you know it _ .

No. It didn’t matter what Hockstetter had or hadn’t commanded, Richie wasn’t going to tell Stan. What good would it do? Stan couldn’t protect him, and it would only make Stan feel bad to know that Bowers and Hockstetter had enjoyed a free Richie-hunting season. Telling Stan the truth wouldn’t do any good at all.

_ (“Imagine what their faces would look like if they knew how good you are at sucking dick. I bet they wouldn’t even look at you, if they found out.”) _

No, telling Stan the truth wouldn’t do any good at all.

~

The three of them were waiting at his locker before lunch, which Richie guessed he should have seen coming. Bill was in the middle, looking like some Arthurian knight with his auburn hair like burnished bronze and his stern expression. Richie wondered whether that expression meant Bill was angry with him — he’d practically run out of Biology class before Bill could talk to him, after all — or whether Bill was only concerned. 

Eddie stood behind Bill, his hands in his pockets and his foot tapping nervously. He was going to be the easiest to deal with, or so Richie hoped. Eddie-Spaghetti couldn’t read him like Stan could, and he didn’t have the effect that Bill did, the one that made Richie want to put his tail between his legs when he knew Bill was mad at him. 

Stan was leaning against Richie’s locker with his arms crossed. His yarmulke was perched on his blond curls, like always. He was talking to Eddie in low tones, his shoulders tense and the creases around the corners of his mouth deepening as he frowned.

For a moment, Richie seriously considered running away. It would probably make things worse in the long term, and it wasn’t like he could avoid his friends forever. But, still. He considered it.

Eddie saw him first, and nudged Stan to get his attention. Stan turned. His expression darkened as he took in Richie’s bruised jaw.

“Hey guys!” Richie said as he drew closer. “If it isn’t my favorite group of losers!” Maybe if he just acted normal, they could all go about their day in peace.

“Hey, Richie,” Eddie said, but his voice was guarded.

Richie marched straight up to Stan and wiggled his eyebrows. “Stannie, darling, you seem to be blocking my locker.” His voice dropped, becoming the pirate’s rasp that he was trying to perfect. “Step aside, me cully! That’s Davey Jones’ Locker, dontcha know, where I keep me treasure and me lunch!” He waggled his eyebrows again and dropped a wink for good measure. “And me booty, if you get my meaning.”

Stan was so taken aback that he moved out of the way without protest, which Richie counted as a win. Clearly, none of his friends had expected him to be acting so… himself. Richie grinned. What was the phrase? The best defense was a good offense? He owed a quarter to whoever the fuck had come up with that one. He unlocked his locker and pinned his backpack against the wall with his hip so he could start unloading his books. He did his best to hide that fact that he was doing everything one-handed, but it was hard. He wasn’t a goddamned magician.

“So!” he said brightly. “Catch me up on everything I missed yesterday. Betty Ripsom with a lollipop in her hair, huh?”

Eddie, Stan, and Bill all exchanged baffled looks. “Uh, y-yeah,” Bill said. “It was p-pretty gross.”

“I’ll bet,” Richie said, slamming his locker closed. His backpack dangled from his uninjured hand, and he realized with a sinking feeling that he couldn’t carry his backpack that way to lunch. Not unless he wanted to broadcast to his friends that his back was Fucked Up™. He gritted his teeth. “She didn’t have to chop off her hair completely, right?” he said. 

Without giving himself time to hesitate, Richie swung his backpack up and over one shoulder. The strap bit into the cuts that looped along the line of his upper back, and Richie swallowed down the noise that rose in his throat as he felt the fragile scabs, that had only just begun to form, split beneath the weight of the bag. Something warm and wet trickled down the divot of his spine. “I mean, they know they could’ve just worked the lollipop out with some peanut butter, right?” he finished. His voice wobbled and he bit the inside of his cheek, willing it to steady. He thought he saw Bill frown out of the corner of his eye, but Richie decided he’d ignore that.

“No, they had to cut out a lot,” Eddie said. He was sneaking glances at Bill, thrown by Richie’s behavior and unsure of how to proceed. His mother’s politeness had him answering out of habit. “Somehow the lollipop got tangled on one side of her head, so it was all snarled up.”

“Ouch,” Richie said, wincing. The wince was only partially for show; as they started walking, the strap of his backpack rubbed unevenly over his shoulders, and more blood welled from the cuts. Richie arched his spine, hoping to take some of the weight off of the wounds, but the motion only made things worse so he stopped. “How short is her hair now?”

“I dunno,” Eddie said. “She put her hair up afterwards so no one could see, and I think she was going to make her mom take her to a salon after school.”

“I s-saw her th-this morning,” Bill said. “It was pretty sh-short. Chin-length, a-a-about.”

Richie made a sympathetic sound. “Ah, that’s not so bad,” he said. “Very chic of her.”

“So, Richie,” Stan said, and fucking hell, Richie knew that tone. That was Stan’s I-am-an-adult-and-we-have-things-to-discuss-young-man tone. Why the hell did Stan have to be so goddamn  _ responsible _ all the time?

Richie did what he did best and kept talking. He rolled right over Stan’s words as if he hadn’t heard them. “What happened to Greta?” he asked. “I’m guessing she gave the teach’ some melty puppy-dog eyes and all was forgiven?”

“Uh, y-yeah, that’s about i-it,” Bill said. He trailed off as he noticed that Stan was glaring at Richie, aware and entirely unimpressed with Richie’s tactics. They had reached the cafeteria, and the cacophony of a hundred shouting teenagers momentarily overwhelmed the conversation. Eddie led the way to their usual table towards the left wall, which was the quieter side of the room and, more importantly, was out of sight from where Bowers and his gang usually hung around.

Richie slid into his seat. Gingerly, he lifted the strap of his backpack off his shoulder with his unburnt hand, relieved when the strap came away dry. He hadn’t bled enough to soak through his hoodie, which was probably his first lucky break all day. 

Of course, Stan had to step in and ruin it. “Are we seriously not going to talk about this?” he asked. He gave an accusing stare, first to Bill, then to Eddie, before twisting to point at Richie’s face. “What the hell is that, Richie?”

Richie shrugged. Acting casual had gotten him this far. “It’s just a bruise,” he said. “Why, are you jealous, Stan? I can give you one too. Girls love ‘em.” He grinned, even though it made his jaw ache.

“Girls do not love them,” Stan snapped. “Girls tend to prefer it when you  _ don’t _ look like you were hit in the face with a sledgehammer.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you have so much experience with what girls like,” Richie shot back.

Stan’s nostrils flared. “Eddie told us about your panic attack during second period,” he said, rather than responding.

Richie gave Eddie a look of betrayal.

Eddie put up his hands. “Hey man, you were freaking me out. You can’t blame us for being worried! Like seriously, you look like you went ten rounds with Henry Bowers.”

Richie kept his face neutral, but it was a near thing. Underneath the table, his hands trembled. “I told you, Eds, it was an accident!” he said. “You can’t blame a guy for being uncoordinated, especially when he’s sick.”

Eddie and Stan shared a frustrated glance.

Bill sat forward, his palms resting on the sticky tabletop, and Richie fought the urge to shrink back from Bill’s unwavering attention. Bill’s eyes were calm and blue and steady. Richie thought he might fall into them if he looked too long, and so he picked at his shirt instead, cleaning away imaginary lint balls. “Well, wh-what happened, then?” Bill asked.

“Then what?” Richie said evasively.

“H-how did you accid-dentally b-b-bruise yourself?”

“I tripped,” Richie said. “Hit my chin on the counter. Jesus, what is this, a trial?”

“But, Richie, it’s n-n-not your chin. I-it’s like, half of y-y-your face,” Bill said.

Richie shrugged, flexing his burnt hand under the table. He felt the skin crackle like old paper and stopped quickly, biting the inside of his cheek. “I was sick alright? I don’t know, people do dumb shit when they’re sick.”

“Th-that doesn’t look l-like—”

“How about you sh-sh-sh-shut the fuck up and leave it alone, Mushmouth?” Richie snapped. 

Shame welled up inside him as soon as the words left his mouth. His back was stinging, his head was hurting, and goddamnit, he didn’t need a reenactment of the fucking Inquisition today. But it was a mean jab. It was a mean jab and Richie knew it. He regretted it at once as Bill recoiled across the table, his expression shuttering. 

By unspoken rule, none of the Losers mocked Bill for his stutter. Occasionally, Richie or Eddie might make a joke, but it was always gentle, accompanied by a nudge and a good-natured shove so that Bill knew they didn’t mean it. They all knew that Bill was still sensitive about it. His stutter frustrated him constantly, despite how much work he put into getting rid of it. It was like a goddamned bad weed; no matter how many tongue twisters Bill said, and no matter how many lessons he scheduled with his speech therapist, his stutter grew new roots and kept poking its head up through the dirt. 

Stan glared at him. “Richie, what the fuck?” he said.

_ (“Look at the sort of man you’re becoming.”) _

Richie ducked his head but didn’t answer. He unzipped his backpack and dug through it for his lunch, only to remember that Maggie had kicked him out of the house before he could grab any food. His stomach complained loudly. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered to it. God, he was hungry. Had it really been more than 48 hours since he’d eaten? It felt like years since he’d had breakfast only two days ago, with no idea that Hockstetter would corner him only a few hours later. 

He had a few coins stashed away at the bottom of his bag. “I’ve gotta go buy lunch,” he said, pulling them out. He’d be glad enough to escape this interrogation. He couldn’t look at Bill’s face, which was flushed with angry embarrassment. Richie felt a twist in his stomach

_ (Why had he said that?) _

_ (“Magic and all that, it shouldn’t be necessary, not for—") _

but he stood up without speaking further.

Stan, who had been rooting through his own backpack, sat up. “I’ve also gotta buy food,” he said, too quickly. “I’ll come with you.”

Richie scowled. “Your parents always pack you a lunch.”

“Not today,” Stan said. “My mom, um, she had a brunch meeting she forgot about with, uh, one of her friends, so she had to run out.”

“Which friend?” Richie demanded.

“What is this, a trial?” Stan parroted. He pulled a dollar from his back pocket and stood up. “I’m ready, it looks like the line is finally dying down.”

Annoyed, Richie followed as Stan cut across the cafeteria towards the lunch counter. A junior pushed past them, carrying a tray, and one of her elbows caught Richie in the ribs as she squeezed by. Stars burst through Richie’s chest — Bowers had delivered three powerful strikes, one after the other, to that spot, leaving a swollen bruise that stretched over Richie’s entire left side and a stabbing pain every time Richie breathed too deeply. Richie couldn’t hold back the wheeze that punched out of him as pain radiated into his lungs. Luckily, Stan was too far away to hear over the noises of the chattering students.

As soon as they entered the back of the line, Stan grabbed Richie’s arm. He held on, as though afraid Richie would try to run away, which Richie almost felt indignant about. But he had pretty much run away from Bill after third period, so, well. Fine. Maybe Stan did know him. But Richie was too busy getting his breath back to do more than jerk his arm away half-heartedly. Stan didn’t let go.

“Rich,” Stan said. “What the fuck? Why are you acting like this?”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Richie mumbled.

“No, you fucking shouldn’t have,” Stan said sharply. “What’s up with you? Will you talk to me?”

Richie jangled his change in one hand. “I always talk to you, Stanny.”

Stan shook his arm. “You know what I mean,” he said. Richie had grown taller than him over the past year, shooting up like a sapling. Stan had to tilt his head up to get Richie to meet his eyes. “You’re lying to us.”

“I’m not lying,” Richie said. “I don’t see what the big deal is anyway. It’s just a bruise.”

“It’s not ‘just a bruise,’” Stan said fiercely. The line shuffled forward, but he still didn’t let go of Richie’s arm. “Do you think we’re blind? You haven’t used your other arm all day!” He made to grab Richie’s right wrist, but Richie shoved it into the pocket of his hoodie. Stan wasn’t finished. “You’re walking around like my Grandma, like everything hurts,” he said, “you keep looking around like you expect someone to jump out and ambush you, not to mention the panic attack you had in front of Eddie!” He pulled at Richie’s arm until Richie met his gaze. Stan’s eyes were different from Bill’s, but at the same time they weren’t different at all. They were brown and sad, and Richie felt as though he was staring into the sun; he thought it might burn him if he didn’t look away, but Stan wouldn’t let him. “Why are you lying to us?” he asked softly. “Why won’t you tell us the truth?”

_ (“You’re just like a fucking doll aren’t you?”) _

_ (“I take it back, Patrick, this surprise is the fuckin’ tits.”) _

_ (“Not bad, for your first time. I should’ve guessed, with those lips you’ve got.”) _

“I can’t,” Richie said, his voice cracking.

The line moved forward again, and then a woman in a hairnet was asking Stan whether he’d like meatloaf or chicken nuggets. While Stan was distracted, Richie scrubbed his uninjured hand across his cheeks, holding his breath so that Stan wouldn’t hear it hitch.

“I’ll have the chicken, Gina darling,” he told the lunch lady when it was his turn.

He collected his tray, handed over his change, but found Stan blocking his path when he turned to head back to the table. Stan’s face was pale. “Rich,” he whispered. “Is it the curse?” His voice was so low that Richie had to lip-read the word “curse.” Rather than replying, Richie dodged around him and fought his way back to Bill and Eddie.

The thing was, it wasn’t the curse. He could’ve blabbed to Stan anytime he wanted to. No. This wasn’t the curse. Just Richie.

_ (“I don’t know what to do with you, Richard, I really don’t.”) _

~

They ate in relative silence after that. Bill kept his mouth shut, picking at his food, but Richie couldn’t bring himself to apologize. He knew he should, and he  _ would _ , of course, it was just

_ (“Apologize to Henry for hitting him.”) _

not the time for talk like that. You couldn’t have serious conversation over food, Richie always said, or it would ruin the taste. Stan kept shooting Richie worried glances, probably alarmed with the way Richie shoved his food into his mouth — nearly inhaling it. Eddie, on the other hand, seemed determined to bully the other three into having a semblance of a conversation. He pestered them about the new horror movies coming out, about end-of-year projects for shop class, about their summer plans once May rolled around. He was like a goddamn bulldog, and eventually Bill’s shoulders began to lower and Richie’s eyes began to lift from his tray. 

“I wanted to t-try to get a job at that s-soda fountain that’s sup-posed to be opening,” Bill offered at last. His words came slower than usual, as though he was focusing intently on each syllable as they formed in his mouth, and a guilty needling wormed its way through Richie’s chest.

“That’d be awesome, Big Bill,” Richie said. He glanced sideways at Bill, and Bill wasn’t glaring at him so he kept on. “Me too, actually. How cool would that be, if we got to work together? I bet we’d be the best soda slingers this side of the Mississippi!”

Eddie shook his head, listening jealously. “My mom would never let me do something like that,” he explained, poking at the remains of his sandwich. Richie was eyeing it. Those chicken nuggets hadn’t done a great job of satisfying his stomach, and Eddie noticed and passed the sandwich over with a sigh. Richie pounced. “Can you imagine, me working in a place like a soda fountain, with kids touching everything with their germy little hands?” Eddie said, shuddering. “Gross. My mom would probably have a seizure if I asked.”

“But th-think of what we could d-do with a l-little ex-xtra pocket change!” Bill said. “What if you worked at Costello’s market or s-something?”

“Yeah, let me know when you convince my mom on that one,” Eddie said. The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. The four boys stood, and Bill and Eddie waited while Richie and Stan went to return their trays.

“What about you, Cyclops?” Richie asked Stan as the four of them headed for their lockers. “Are you thinking of getting a summer job?”

Stan frowned at him. “What the hell sort of a nickname is Cyclops?”

“Isn’t it obvious? The X-man!” Richie held a hand in front of his glasses, miming a visor. “‘Cause you’ve got the biggest stick up your butt out of all of us and also because your glare sometimes make me feel like my face is melting off. Yeah, like that one!”

Bill laughed and Stan glowered harder. Richie cackled, some of the grayness lifting from him as he caught Bill’s eye and the two boys shared a smile. Richie turned to his locker just as the tide of students swirled around them, and through the crowd he caught a sudden glimpse of red hair. Without thinking about it, Richie hurried forward, scanning the hallway, but Beverly Marsh had vanished.

“Richie?” Eddie asked.

“Uh, nothing,” Richie said. It was no big deal. He could talk to Beverly in seventh period. If she even would talk to him. She’d been pretty defensive when he’d run into her by the Barrens, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have questions to ask. He was so preoccupied thinking about Beverly Marsh that he didn’t notice that Stan had stopped in the middle of the hallway, and he walked right into Stan’s back.

“Ouch! Hey, Stanny, what gives?” he said.

“Uh,” Stan managed.

“Well, look who it is,” said a familiar voice, and Richie went cold. He took a step backwards and crashed into Bill’s chest. “My least favorite pack of losers,” Henry Bowers sneered.

He stood in all his mullet-headed glory, flanked by Belch Huggins on one side, and Moose Sadler and Patrick Hockstetter on the other. The four of them made a blockade across the corridor. Other kids, sensing danger, swung wide around the group, squeezing past against the lockers and creating an empty ring around the Losers and Bowers’ gang.

“Oh fuck,” Eddie whispered.

Bowers’ gaze roved across their little group, finally settling on Richie. Bowers grinned. “Hey there, Dollface,” he said, and Hockstetter snickered. “I’m surprised to see you back at school already. How’s your face feeling? I didn’t think you could get any uglier, but.” He shrugged, spreading his hands as if to say  _ wonders never cease. _

Hockstetter was staring. His eyes flicked up and down Richie’s whole body, and he made a kissy-face before laughing again.

Richie thought his heart might beat out of his chest and flop to the floor with a bloody splat. He was dimly aware of Bill’s steadying hands on his shoulders and Stan stepping in front of him to hide him from Bowers’ view. He knew his cheeks must be bone white. God, what the hell had he done to deserve friends like these? He’d been lying to them all day, and here they were sticking their necks out for him with no hesitation.

“L-leave off, B-b-bowers,” Bill said.

“You hit Richie?” Eddie demanded at the same time.

Bowers ignored both of them. He was like a shark, sniffing out Richie’s fear. He tilted his head so that he could smile at Richie around Stan’s shoulder. “You’re not really going to hide behind them, are you?” he said, nodding at Stan and Bill. “You know that’s not going to do jack shit.”

“Fuck off, Bowers!” Stan said. The line of his neck was strung tighter than piano wire.

Again, Bowers ignored him. He winked at Richie. “Since you’re feeling better already, maybe Patrick and I can make some time later for you—”

“Shut up!” Eddie shouted. Though it felt like he was moving in slow motion, Richie turned his head to look at his friend. Eddie’s hands were clenched into fists, and he had stomped forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Stan. “Stay away from him! Go off and fuck cows, or whatever trash like you does in your spare time!”

For the first time, Henry looked at Eddie, and Richie trembled at what he saw in Henry’s face. It was the same cruelty he’d seen when Henry had ordered him to lick his boots. The same excitement as when Henry had pulled out his knife to carve up Richie’s back like a Christmas turkey. Richie wanted to reach out and yank Eddie back, tell him to shut the fuck up. Wanted to shove Eddie behind him so that Henry’s flat, lizard eyes couldn’t find him. But Richie couldn’t move, he  _ couldn’t fucking move _ because his lungs were heaving and his skin was clammy and terror was gluing his feet to the floor. 

“Nobody asked your opinion, faggot,” Bowers said. “The adults are talking.”

Eddie bristled. “What is your fucking problem?” he demanded. “Why the fuck do you have to pick on us all the time, huh? You really have nothing better to do? Or, what, your dad hates you enough that you gotta take it out on us?”

Bowers went beet red. “What the fuck did you just say?” he said. The hallway had gone silent. Most of the smart kids had made themselves scarce, and the ones who remained made a quick exit at the violent edge in Bowers’ voice.

“You heard me,” Eddie said. Richie was in awe; Eddie couldn’t be more than five-foot three, but every inch of him looked like he could spit fire. “Everyone knows it! Is that why you ended up as much of a waste of space as you are? I don’t blame him for it! If I had a shitty kid like you, I’d hate you too!”

Richie, Stan, and Bill stared at Eddie, open-mouthed. Eddie had always had a short fuse, but Richie had never heard him go off like this. Certainly not on Henry Bowers. Richie wasn’t sure whether to be proud or horrified.

Horrified won out when Richie looked back over at Henry. Rage was obvious in every vein that was beginning to stand out in Bowers’ thick neck. “Shut the fuck up, fuckwad, before I shut it for you,” he growled.

“Fuck you too!” Eddie said. “I’m so fucking sick of you and your idiot bodyguards making our lives miserable. Henry fucking Bowers, the kid who spends his time beating up kids for kicks ‘cause that’s the only skill he’s got! I bet your dad’s real proud of you. Jesus Christ, the only reason they haven’t locked you up yet is because your dad’s part of the fucking Sheriff’s office! You belong in a fucking insane asylum—”

“I said  _ shut up! _ ” Bowers roared. His bloodshot eyes were bugging out of their sockets.

Richie’s muscles

_ (finally) _

unlocked and he grabbed the back of Eddie’s shirt to pull him behind Stan.

“I’m going to fucking kill you, you little pipsqueak loser,” Bowers said. “What I did to Fuckface over there? That’s gonna look like a fucking walk in the park when I’m done with you.” He stalked down the hallway, flanked by his friends, and Richie, Stan, and Bill instinctively closed ranks around Eddie, creating a protective barrier that felt very flimsy with Bowers bearing down on them.

“We should probably be running now,” Stan said.

Richie wholeheartedly agreed. Bowers was almost on them, scattering the last few onlookers like rats, with sweat standing out on his forehead and his lips pulled back from his teeth. 

Before he could reach them, a new voice cut the air over their heads.

“That is quite enough, Mr. Bowers!”

Bowers and his goons stopped in their tracks. Mr. Schulzman, the physics teacher, had appeared at the bottom of the stairs which led to the second floor. He swept towards them. Richie caught the smallest glimpse of Terra Howards, her blond braid bobbing, ducking around the corner. She must have run to find a teacher when they’d blocked the hallway. Terra was a bit of a nosy bitch — too much of a teacher’s pet, in Richie’s opinion — but right then, he could have kissed her. Mr. Schulzman was a large man, with an unsmiling face and biceps thicker than Eddie’s waist.

By the time Mr. Schulzman reached them, Moose and Belch were hightailing it towards the cafeteria, but Mr. Schulzman called them back with a barked order that would have made any drill sergeant envious. Mr. Schulzman surveyed the lot of them, Bill and the rest of his friends on one side, Bowers and his gang on the other. He made a rough sighing noise through his nose.

“Boys,” he said. His voice was deep and seemed to rumble in his chest like a washing machine full of gravel. Like most of the school, Richie had always been intimidated by Mr. Schulzman. If ever there had been someone to embody the phrase “a bear of a man,” Mr. Schulzman fit that to a T. “What’s this I hear about fighting in the halls?” he said.

Nobody responded. Stan, Moose, and Richie had all realized that their shoes were unexpectedly fascinating and were staring at them with determined focus. Bill and Belch were fidgeting, while Hockstetter just looked bored. Both Eddie and Bowers had crossed their arms, but while Eddie was blushing due to embarrassment, Bowers’ cheeks were red with anger.

Mr. Schulzman waited. When it became evident that no one was going to step forward, he cleared his throat. “Mr. Sadler, would you care to explain the situation?” he said.

Moose jumped. The gel in his hair was beginning to lose its hold, and tufts were fluffing out from around his ears where they had been slicked down. He smoothed one of these tufts with his fingers in a nervous gesture. “Um, no. Uh, nothing’s going on,” he said lamely. “We were just, um, talking.”

Mr. Schulzman’s expression remained hard. “I see,” he said. “Talking.”

“Yessir,” Moose said.

“Talking about what?”

“Oh, um. Uh, homework,” Moose said, stumbling through his words. He smoothed another tuft of hair and it sprang back into place as he lowered his hand. “We were talking about homework.”

“You were talking about homework,” Mr. Schulzman repeated, and Moose winced. Mr. Schulzman’s gaze swept over the rest of them. “Is that right, boys? Mr. Uris, is Mr. Sadler here being honest with me?”

Stan jerked his eyes up. “Yes, sir!” he said. Everyone knew it was better to keep quiet around teachers. If Bowers or one of his crew knew you’d gone and squealed, they’d be sure to track you down later to pay you back. With interest. 

Mr. Schulzman’s lips thinned. “Alright then. If that’s the story, that’s the story. But boys, we have less than a month until school lets out. Being caught fighting now—” he looked pointedly at Bowers and Belch “—would be a very bad idea. I would hate for any of you to be suspended, or to be stuck in summer classes because you can’t keep it civil.”

Richie doubted that either Bowers or Belch knew what “civil” meant, but for once, he managed to keep his mouth shut.

“Go on then,” Mr. Schulzman told them. “You’re going to be late to class anyway, so you might as well get going. And remember, I don’t want to hear about any more trouble involving you boys.” He turned, heading back towards the stairs, then seemed to think better of it and paused before mounting them. He leaned against the railing instead and looked pointedly back at the two groups of boys, neither of whom had moved. “Go on,” he said again.

“Yes sir!” Stan said.

Belch made a prissy, hand-flapping gesture, whispering “yes sir” in a high falsetto and squinching up his face. Bill flipped Belch the bird, and Bowers bared his teeth at Eddie. 

“I’m comin’ for ya, pipsqueak,” he hissed, too low for Mr. Shulzman to hear.

Hockstettered giggled.

A shudder worked its way down Richie’s back.

The Losers went one way, and Bowers’ gang went another. Mr. Schulzman watched them both until he judged that they were too far apart to cause more trouble, then headed back for the science wing with his broad shoulders squared.

~

Richie didn’t see Bowers again until the bell rang to signal the end of school. He thought that might mean things would be alright, at least for a little while.

He was wrong, of course.

Very wrong.

~

The bell rang at 3:30, and, like most of his teachers, Mr. Polaski called Richie up to his desk at the end of class to ask if everything was okay, and to catch Richie up on the past few days of homework. Bill caught Richie’s eye before he left the room and mouthed something that looked like  _ meet you at the lockers _ . Richie acknowledged him with a wave of his good hand.

Beverly Marsh was busy packing up her things as Richie pushed by her desk, and he paused for a moment. He wondered if she could sense him hovering up by the top of her head. Apparently, she could, because she glanced up at him and raised one eyebrow. Her expression was cool and closed off.

“I, uh, I just wanted to say thanks,” Richie told her. “I have your jacket, if you want it.”

She didn’t reply.

“Not, uh, not with me,” he hurried to add. “But I could bring it tomorrow and give it back to you? And I just wanted to say thanks. So, yeah.”

Something in Richie’s voice made Beverly soften, ever so slightly. “That’d be great,” she said. “My dad’s probably going to start looking for it soon. Thanks, Richie.”

“No problem.” Richie had the feeling that she would shut down with any mention of their meeting, so he left it at that. He headed towards Mr. Polaski’s desk. 

Fortunately, Mr. Polaski was too tired to properly care about Richie’s bruising. It had been a long week, and the smell of spring was coming in through the opened windows near the ceiling, heavy with the perfume of flowers and pollen. He put Richie through a rudimentary interrogation, then sent him on his way with some worksheets to make up his missed work.

Richie was relieved. This had been the longest, most stressful school day of his life, and he wanted nothing more than to stagger home and fall into his bed for the next twelve hours. He’d managed to fend off Stan’s concern, and Bill and Eddie’s anxious questions, and, best of all, had managed to avoid direct contact with Hockstetter all day. He pushed through the kids milling about in the hallway, towards the stairwell and the second floor where he, Bill, and Eddie had lockers. Maybe if he was lucky, his parents would be out of the house by the time he got home, and he could slink upstairs and collapse for a little while.

It was about then that everything went to shit.

A hand landed on Richie’s shoulder and spun him around. He crashed into the lockers on the left side of the corridor and couldn’t bite back a gasp of pain as the slices along his upper back slammed into the wall. Kids scattered in all directions; he could hear panicked footsteps as they backed away. When Richie opened his eyes, he found himself nose to nose with Henry Bowers.

“What the fuck!” Richie shouted. “Let go of me, you creepy—”

“Shut up,” Bowers snarled.

Richie shut up.

Bowers pressed Richie back against the lockers, his hands balled into Richie’s shirt. Bowers’ face was close enough that Richie could smell the meatloaf from lunch on Bowers’ breath. Close enough to kiss. They were so close that Richie could count the clogged pores across the bridge of Bowers’ nose. “You think that was funny, earlier?” Bowers snarled. Specks of spittle rained onto Richie’s cheeks. “You think your shortbus friend was brave for talking about my Dad like that?”

Richie shook his head, scrabbling at Bowers’ fingers. The corridor around them was now empty. Any kid within fifty yards had fled when they saw Bowers on the warpath.

Bowers slammed Richie against the lockers once more, rattling his teeth in his head. “You think it’s funny when some little punk bitch tries to make fun of me like that?” Bowers said.

Richie shook his head frantically.

Bowers yanked Richie forward so that they were nose to nose. “Well, your little pussy friend does,” Bowers said. “He must think it’s real funny.” His voice was uglier than Richie had ever heard it. Like it was cracked down the middle. Richie had been so terrified of running into Hockstetter all day that he’d forgotten that Bowers was just as frightening, just as insane.

Bowers pulled Richie closer. “I’m gonna make him pay for that,” Bowers said. He and Richie were practically swapping air, and Bowers seemed not to notice Richie’s desperate attempts to pry away his hands from his shirt. “I was just gonna track the little queer down after school,” Bowers continued. He shoved Richie, and Richie bit down on a cry as his back smacked into the lockers and blood wet his shirt. “But then Patrick talked me out of it. He told me there was a better way to do it.” One of Bowers’ hands came up to grab Richie’s bruised jaw, and Bowers jerked Richie’s chin up until Richie could see the white gleam of his smile. “We thought it would be much more fun if  _ you _ do it, Fuckface.”

He dropped Richie, and Richie stumbled away, gasping. He felt as though Bowers had just wrenched open his ribs and poured an icy crush of water straight into his chest cavity.  _ No _ , he thought.  _ No, fuck, I can’t. These assholes can’t make me, not to my _ ** _ friends_ ** —

“N-n-n-” he forced out, before the curse sank burning hooks into his tongue and throat. He pressed his lips together.  _ I won’t _ , he thought, shaking his head.  _ Fuck no.  _ ** _No. _ ** _ Not to Eds. _

“Y-y-y-yes,” Bowers mocked him. “I told you, Four-eyes, no one fucks with me unless they want to breathe through a tube for the rest of their life.”

Richie turned to run. It was the only thing he could think to do. He had to get away, he had to get out of earshot. He had to protect Eddie from whatever this sick fuck of a bully wanted to do. His shoes slipped on the linoleum tiles and he almost fell. Bowers didn’t even try to stop him. There was no need. Richie wasn’t fast enough to outrun Bowers’ voice.

“Go hurt Kasprak!” Bowers shouted after him. His words rang in the empty hallway, echoing in Richie’s ears. It sounded as though Bowers was laughing. “Fuck him up, Tozier! Put him in the fucking hospital! Break his fucking legs and make him bleed, you got that?”

Richie reached the stairwell. He clapped his hands over his ears, but it was too late. Already the burning itch of the command was settling over him, pricking at his skin. He clattered down the stairs, banging his shoulder against the railing, and then he was hurtling out into the first-floor hallway. A trio of sophomores screamed as he barreled through them.

“What the fuck, dude?” one of them yelled.

Richie staggered away from them.

_ (Eddie) _

He had to leave. Right now. Fuck the homework in his locker,

_ (Eddie would be at his locker) _

if he could get home, his mother would do something. Even if it was just grounding him, she’d give him a new order, Richie knew it.

_ (He should go to his locker too) _

She’d do something to help. She had to. But if she wasn’t there, that didn’t matter either. Richie couldn’t be  _ here _ . Here was where Eddie was, and Richie wouldn’t— he  _ couldn’t—  _

_ (Make him bleed) _

Not to his friends but especially not to  _ Eddie _ , who was built like a goddamn baby bird with fragile bones and hair that was soft like feathers. Who let Richie poke his face and ruffle his hair even when Richie was being a little shit, who gave Richie his sandwich without asking and who had yelled at Bowers not four hours ago like a pint-sized, idiotic little lion who was too brave for his own good. Who had done that for  _ Richie _ .  _ _ Richie needed to leave, he needed to leave  _ now _ – no, fuck now _ ,  _ he needed to leave fucking  _ yesterday _ –

Richie fell against the wall, gasping, as everything inside of him  _ howled _ for him to turn around. To go back to

_ (Eddie) _

his locker.  _ No, _ he told himself. He took a shuffling step towards the front door. His insides

_ (screamed, make Eddie scream, put him in the fucking hospital Tozier) _

twisted, nausea rising inside him. A yawning pain was opening up just over the horizon. Richie could feel it rushing down towards him, shrieking like a giant bat, but he took another step because  _ fuck no _ . Sweat broke out across his forehead, making his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose.  _ I won’t do it _ , he told himself. His thoughts felt hazy and far apart, thin clouds on a windy day.  _ I won’t _ . He fixed his eyes on his shoes and took another step. Another.  _ Just get home _ , he said to himself.  _ Just gotta get home. Find Mom _ .

_ (Hurt Kasprak) _

He took another step. His vision blurred. There was a strange sensation somewhere in his chest, a ripping like a sheet of paper torn down the center, and something wet was trickling from his nose. He thought he could taste blood

_ (Make him bleed) _

but he couldn’t have said for certain.  _ I won’t hurt him _ , Richie told himself. He repeated it inside his mind, over and over again, clinging to the words. He took a step.

_ I won’t hurt him. _

_ _ _ (Fuck him up) _

Lockers slid by him.

_ I won’t hurt him. _

_ _ _ (Put him in the fucking hospital) _

His shoulder knocked against the wall as he rounded the corner, but he kept going.

_ I  _ ** _won’t _ ** _ hurt him. _

_ _ _ (Break his fucking legs) _

The floor pitched, warping beneath him. Richie stumbled but maintained his footing, and the tiles beneath him swam crazily as he tried to focus.

And then a voice made him jerk his head up.

“Richie?”

Through bleary eyes, Richie saw a fresh line of lockers. He frowned. He should be almost to the front doors. Shouldn’t he? His gaze slid sideways, to three indistinct figures clustered to the side of the hallway. The tallest one stepped forward, red hair bright in the afternoon sunlight falling through the windows at the far end of the corridor.

“Richie?” he said again. “A-are you ok-okay?” He touched Richie’s shoulder, and Richie shrugged him away. Where was the front door? He had to get home, find his mom. He had to. Because… Because…

His eyes fell on the shortest of the three figures,

_ (On Eddie, it’s Eddie you fucking monster,  _ ** _I won’t hurt him_ ** _ ) _

_ (Make him bleed, you got that?) _

and every nerve in his body seemed to ignite. His vision narrowed, black around the edges.

“Rich?” said the one with curly hair – said Stan, it was  _ Stan _ goddammit. “Shit, you look terrible! Why is your nose bleeding?”

Richie tried to answer. He tried to explain that this was supposed to be the front door, why wasn’t he at the front door? He’d tried to leave, and now he was here. It didn’t make sense. But Bowers had switched off his voice.

“Richie?” the shortest one said. “Dude, stop fucking around. You’re freaking me out.”

_ (It’s Eddie, you jackass, it’s  _ ** _Eddie_ ** _ , just fucking  _ ** _stop)_ **

_ (Fuck him up, Tozier, you got that?  _ ** _You got that?_ ** _ ) _

He lurched forwards, towards Eddie, who backed up uncertainly.

“Richie?” he asked in a small voice.

Stan stepped in front of Richie. “Richie, what’s wrong? Talk to us.”

Richie dragged his gaze away from Eddie to fix on Stan. “Gotta hurt him,” he rasped, and Stan’s eyebrows drew together.

“Hurt him?” he echoed. “Hurt who?”

_ (Go hurt Kasprak) _

_ _ _ _ _ (Break his fucking legs) _

Richie shoved, and suddenly Stan wasn’t in front of him anymore.

“What the hell!” Eddie shouted, but then Richie cocked back his fist. His knuckles met Eddie’s cheekbone with an audible  _ snapping _ sound, and then Eddie wasn’t in front of him either.

“Richie!” Bill screamed from somewhere behind him, but Richie was past listening. The curse was roaring at him, clawing at him, and all that mattered was that Eddie had fallen to the floor and he was over Eddie, on top of him, straddling him, and his fist rose again only to come back down, and he couldn’t even hear Eddie crying out over the thundering in his ears. If felt so good, so goddamn  _ good _ , as he felt flesh smack against his closed fist and the screaming of the curse was blunted, but only for a moment, and it returned as soon as Richie pulled back his arm, so Richie hit down again, watching as droplets of blood sprayed in an arc across the linoleum but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t  _ enough _ because he had to

_ (put him in the fucking hospital) _

and he thought he might have been crying but he couldn’t be sure because he couldn’t see straight or think straight and all the mattered was clenching his fist, it didn’t matter that it was burned, he could hardly feel the stretch and crinkle of the blistered skin, all he could feel was the body beneath him twisting, trying to shove Richie away which Richie couldn’t allow, he wasn’t done, he wasn’t  _ done,  _ and the curse was a roaring storm inside of him—

And then Bill tackled him to the side. Richie hit the ground with a thud and the air was driven from his lungs. Bill landed on top of him, pinning him down.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bill shouted. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

Richie didn’t listen. He writhed, trying to throw Bill off. He wasn’t  _ fucking done _ , didn’t Bill understand? The curse wailed at him, until Richie thought all of his muscles must fray apart under the strain.

“Get off!” he screeched, and hardly recognized his own voice. “Get off, I’m not done!” He bucked his hips but Bill hung on, grabbing at Richie’s wrists when Richie battered at his shoulders and chest.

“Richie, calm down!” Bill shouted, but that was the wrong thing to say. It wasn’t enough, it was too goddamn vague, because even as Richie scrambled to take a deep breath and get a hold of himself, that driving need to

_ (make him bleed) _

get to Eddie didn’t fade away. Instead, calmly, Richie reached up, took Bill’s head in his hands, and smashed his own forehead into Bill’s face.

Bill went slack with the unexpected pain, and this time Richie succeeded in throwing him off. He staggered to his feet, free at-fucking-last, and lunged forwards to where Eddie was still stretched out on the floor.

“Richie, stop!” Stan screamed. “Whatever you were told to do, just stop! Right now!”

Richie stopped.

It was like a harsh winter meeting the first thaw of spring. Like a wash of warm, southern wind which gusts up from the humid ocean, carrying with it the green hint of growing things. Icicles crack. Imprisoning snow, which coats houses and fields alike, loses its greedy handhold. Stan’s words washed over Richie, and, like the snow melting in springtime, the strident clamor of the curse faded back into the hollow spaces between Richie’s bones. He took a step back, wobbled, and then collapsed onto his knees. The hall spun around him.

“Rich?” Stan said warily.

Richie looked around and saw Stan climbing to his feet. He must have hit his head when Richie pushed him aside, because there was a dazed expression on his face and an angry red spot high on one side of his forehead.

“I—” Richie began, and then stopped. “Eddie,” he said instead, and struggled to stand. “Eddie, holy shit—” He turned, but something shoved him hard in the chest before he could do more than get his feet under him. He fell backwards onto his ass.

“You stay the fuck away from him,” Bill growled. He towered over Richie. Blood was streaming from his nose where Richie had headbutted him. “What the hell’s gotten into you, Richie?”

Richie shook his head, shrinking back. Bill’s face was contorted, his lips pulled back from his teeth. Richie wanted to fold into himself, to shrivel up and vanish to get away from the fury on Bill’s face. “I didn’t—” he said, but Bill cut him off.

“Shut up!” he bellowed. “Just shut up, Richie! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Bill,” Stan said, but his voice was weak and Bill ignored him.

“What the fuck kind of friend are you, Rich? I can’t fucking believe you!” he shouted. “You act like an asshole all day, and now this? What the hell is wrong with you?” 

Shame tightened Richie’s throat. He reached for Bill, trying to make him understand without words.

Bill’s eyes landed on the blood staining Richie’s knuckles. Eddie’s blood. His expression twisted and he knocked Richie’s hand away. “Just stay away from him!” he yelled, nearly sobbing. “Stay away from all of us!”

A fist reached into Richie’s chest and squeezed. He gasped, pushing himself back and away as Bill’s order settled over him.

“No,” Stan said. He grabbed Bill’s wrist, but his face was white. “Bill, he didn’t mean it—”

“I don’t fucking care!” Bill roared. He flung out a hand. “Look at what he did!”

Stan fell silent. He looked at Eddie, and any remaining color left his face. He left Bill and Richie to hurry over. Richie saw him drop to his knees. Richie ducked his head, trying to see around Bill to where Eddie was, but Bill moved between them.

“Get away!” Bill shouted. “Get out of here! Don’t you fucking come near him!”

Richie wanted to protest. He wanted to shout that it hadn’t been him, it had been  _ Bowers _ . Richie would never hurt Eddie. He wouldn’t. Except that it was his hands where Eddie’s blood was now drying. It was he who had held Eddie down.

Bill was turning away and rushing to Eddie’s side. Richie wanted to follow, but Bill’s words drove him back. The curse was forcing him down the corridor, away from his friends, and Richie couldn’t fight it anymore. He tried to call out, but Bill had snatched away his voice.

_ Let this be a nightmare, _ Richie prayed to himself.  _ Please, please, let this be a fucked up dream _ .

He knew it wasn’t. As a last attempt, Richie threw himself back towards his friends, huddled on the hallway floor. The curse yanked hooks under his skin, dragging tears from his eyes, until finally Richie turned and fled. Running from the awful pain of the curse and from the horrible hate in Bill’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days, I won't end a chapter on a cliffhanger. But not today, apparently.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed! Uh, sorry. I do promise that things get better at some point, I've just gotta break them a little more first. But they will get better! 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who is supporting this story, it really means a lot. If you haven't left a review yet, please consider it! It's really the only way I can know what you guys think of each chapter, so I treasure each and every one <3 Anyways, see you guys next Sunday!


	6. Part 6 - 1991: The Pills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was the last person in the world to deserve pity right now, when his best friend’s blood was all over his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends! Happy Sunday!
> 
> So, holy shit, let me first say thank you to everyone who left kudos and reviews, you guys came through hard and I am speechless. The support for this has been amazing! I love every single one of you T.T My ego is now officially inflated.
> 
> Okay, second, this chapter. Uhh. Gosh, I'm pretty nervous about it guys. I'm the type of writer who likes action scenes, not emotion scenes, and this chapter is almost entirely how Richie is doing inside his own head. So... Jesus, I hope it comes through. Anyway, I know I keep promising some comfort, and, okay the *next* chapter is where the comfort officially starts. This is the last really rough one, so thanks to everyone for sticking with me! This one is a bit shorter, but the next chapter is going to be really long to make up for it.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: I'm actually going to post them in the end-notes this week, because I don't want to give any spoilers. However, if you know that you are triggered by depression or anything related to that, PLEASE scroll down to check before reading. This chapter gets quite dark. Take care of yourselves!

Sunlight fell hot on the sidewalk in Derry, Maine. The sky was a stark, cloudless blue, and the day felt closer to summer than to spring. Waves of fragile heat rose from the asphalt covering the road, rising in shimmering mirages that made the whole town appear as though it was swimming underwater. In the windows of Freese’s department store, clerks took down the mannequins wearing mud boots and vests and dressed them instead in cut-off jean shorts and sun hats. Lawns were greener than they had been all year. One or two of the older residents had dragged their faded, sturdy cushions out from storage to set them on neglected outdoor furniture, sensing that the weather had finally turned. They called out to each other from behind their porch railings. Summer was in the air. Not here yet — the purple crocuses bobbing their heads in the afternoon breeze were evidence of that — but close enough.

Richie stood on the corner of Witcham and Main, gazing intently at one such group of flowers. Their bell-shaped heads drooped towards the dirt in which they were planted. Small peeks of yellow were visible through the gaps in their petals, tiny flashes like fireflies in twilight. With summer just around the corner, Richie could see the wrinkles that had begun to appear on their aging petals. It wouldn’t be long, maybe a week, before the flowers withered entirely. 

A car passed by on Witcham Street, and the wind of its passing made the flowers knock together like broken chimes. It was as though they were nodding at some secret passed between them.

Eddie liked crocuses, Richie knew. He always pointed them out to the others when the weather grew warmer. “They’re the half-bangers of spring. My Mom told me,” he used to say proudly. “They’re my favorites, ‘cause they always show up first. Cool, right?”

“Oh no. No, no,” Richie would say. “Literally nothing in that sentence was cool. At all.” 

Eddie would glare, and Bill would laugh, trying to stifle his giggles behind his hands so that Eddie wouldn’t be offended. It wasn’t until they turned twelve that they’d figured out the word was _ harbinger _, not half-banger.

Richie bent down and picked one of the crocuses with his unburnt hand. The stem was cool and damp against his fingers. Inside the cup of the flower, there was a brushing of sticky, golden pollen, and Richie touched it with a fingernail. It left a dusty streak across his skin. There were other streaks on his hands, of course. Red streaks. Richie didn’t look at them, but he could feel them, drying across his knuckles like heavy plaster.

He carried the crocus with him to his bike and tucked the flower in the side pocket of his backpack. Then, he swung his leg over the seat and pushed off from the curb.

He might have lingered a while there, watching the crocuses bounce in the mild wind, if not for Maggie and her explosive yelling fit that morning. If not for Maggie, he might have headed towards the Barrens, or the quarry outside of town, where he and his friends liked to paddle around on hot days in the milky water. But Maggie had made it an order when she told him to _ come straight home after classes are done _, and so home was where Richie went. He slung his backpack over the handlebars of his bike and steered with his knees while he tucked his throbbing, burnt hand against his chest. Throbbing because he’d hit Eddie with it. Because he’d hurt Eddie with it.

God, was Eddie alright? Had he even been moving? Richie hadn’t been able to see before Bill— Before Bill had sent him away. Richie clenched his injured hand into a fist. A bolt of pain tore up his arm. Richie did it again, feeling the stretch and crinkle of his burned skin as he forced it to bend.

His parent’s car was gone from the driveway when he pedaled to a stop on the sidewalk outside his house. The street was deserted, and the driving sun glared off of the white sideboards and reflected from the staring windows. Richie dismounted his bike and wheeled it around to the side alley, his feet dragging across the pavement. The distance seemed greater today, somehow. The gap between his house and the neighbor’s fence was at once too long and too thin, as though it was being distorted in a funhouse mirror. Richie half-expected to stumble over at any moment, waiting for the ground beneath him to shift and buckle, but no such thing happened. His shoes scuffed off of the weeds growing from between the cracks in the concrete. Maggie would probably make him go out and pull them soon. She always had him clean up the yard when the weather warmed.

As Richie was leaning his bike against the side of the house, a rattle from behind him made him pause. He turned as Mrs. Hoffer’s cat leapt up onto the dividing fence. She was a tiny calico, and the orange in her fur glowed in the spring sunlight. Her dainty paws minced on the wooden slats. When she saw Richie, she flicked her ears and made a chirruping noise deep in her throat.

_ Hey, pretty girl _, Richie wanted to say. He raised a hand toward her, then stopped himself. Red stained the skin over his knuckles.

Tears welled abruptly in his eyes and Richie dropped his bike with a clatter. Frightened, the cat disappeared back behind the fence while Richie stamped back to the front door, hugging his backpack to his chest. He let himself into the dark entranceway and stood for a moment, listening to the quiet creakings of an abandoned house.

He found his mother’s note beneath a magnet on the fridge.

> **Dear Richard,**
> 
> **Your father and I have gone to Bangor for the weekend. I’ve left money for groceries. Please vacuum the house before we get back and remember to bring in the newspaper.**
> 
> ** Mom**

Pinned underneath the note was a ten-dollar bill.

Richie reread the note several times before its meaning fully sank in. When he finally understood, he was almost angry with himself for being surprised. Of course his parents were gone. Again. There was no mention of the morning, when Maggie had kicked him out of the house in a rage. No mention of his ditching school the day before. It was as though the past few hours had never happened at all. 

The silence of the house around him seemed to grow louder. There was no one here. No one here but him.

Richie felt a bleak weightlessness inside of him. He had the crazy idea that if he didn’t grab hold of something, he might just float away. Did Maggie care anymore? Did she remember yelling at him? Did she even remember _ him _? Richie stared out the kitchen window at the powdery sky outside, and fought back a sudden, overwhelming doubt that invaded his thoughts. He looked down at himself and wouldn’t have been surprised to see a transparent body, with the wooden floor peeking up at him through his intangible shoes. 

_ I’m a fucking ghost in my own house _, he thought to himself. For a moment, he wondered if his parents would have noticed if he hadn’t come home on Wednesday. If Patrick and Henry had simply killed him that night at the dump. How long would it have taken them to realize that their son was missing?

_ Am I even here? _ he wondered. _ Do I fucking exist? _

What made a person? Their actions? He didn’t have actions. Maggie had made sure of that. What he did wasn’t _ him, _it was Maggie speaking through him, or Henry Bowers, or his teachers or friends or the countless people who yanked the invisible puppet strings that trailed from him. How could you be a person when you couldn’t decide what your own hands did? And, when he did manage to act on his own, what did it mean that nobody seemed to acknowledge it? If Richie had stormed into the kitchen this morning and shouted into his parents’ faces, would they have heard him? Would they have even looked up?

It frightened him that he didn’t know the answer.

_ Jesus fucking Christ _ , he thought. _ Enough with this existential bullshit _. He was the last person in the world to deserve pity right now, when his best friend’s blood was all over his hands.

He switched on the kitchen tap and thrust his hands under the spray. He scrubbed furiously, digging at the specks of red that stuck in the creases of his knuckles and in the moon-shaped grooves of his nails. Water slapped at the blisters on his burned palm, making the top layer of skin ripple loosely like cloth in a limp wind. More pain shot up his arm.

_ Good _ , Richie thought to himself. _ Fucking good. _

He had never felt so empty before. It felt as though someone had pried open his mouth, jammed a funnel between his teeth, and poured stones into his chest. Everything inside of him was still and cold.

_ I hurt my best friend, _ he thought. He wanted to shy away from the memory, to put on a silly accent and talk his way around it until it lost its meaning, but he couldn’t. It wouldn’t change what had happened, what he had done. Bowers had told him to hurt Eddie, and Richie hadn’t had the fucking spine to stop himself.

_ (“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bill had shouted) _

Something did have to be wrong with him. Was there an invisible shadow about him, some bad luck that followed him around like a thundercloud? Normal people didn’t hurt the people they cared about.

_ (“You forced our hand _ , _ ” Maggie had said. “ I told Went we could find another way”) _

But normal people didn’t need to be cursed before they could string together complex sentences, did they? It was the reason that Maggie and Went treated him with such distance, because why else would they leave him behind so often? Stan’s parents never left him anywhere — hell, they’d gone on a family road trip up to Canada just last year, and Stan hadn’t stopped talking about the French culture of Montreal for weeks after he’d gotten back. Eddie’s mother doted on him as though he was the second coming of Jesus. Bill’s parents were a bit more hands-off, but they had two kids to deal with. They trusted Bill to stay out of trouble while they made sure Georgie didn’t kill himself doing whatever pre-teens did, and still, they made time for movie nights on the weekends and family dinners every Tuesday.

Not Maggie and Wentworth. Family dinners weren’t in the cards for people like them.

_ (“We did it all for _ ** _you_ ** _ , Richard, and somehow it wasn’t enough?” she’d said) _

Richie had always thought that it was the curse, somehow, to blame for this. After all, who wanted to hang around a cursed, hyperactive teenaged son? But now he wondered; had something been wrong with him, even before the curse? Had Maggie and Went seen something inside of him, some blackness that they’d tried to prevent?

_ (“I gave you my heart, Richard, and some days I’m afraid you’re going to break it for good”) _

“Shut up,” Richie said out loud. Or tried to. He got halfway through forming the first syllable before the curse tightened his throat and left him coughing. _ Shut up. _ His mouth kept moving, shaping the words. _ Shut up, shut up, just _ ** _shut up_ **.

Belatedly, he realized that the water was still running. He shut it off and turned away from the sink and the window, and from his mother’s note tacked up on the fridge. He wandered into the living room and sat down on one of the couches. Patches of sunlight were lying slanted across the floor. Dust motes danced in the air like embers.

With numb fingers, Richie reached up and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. He pulled the fabric aside and looked down at the ugly, scarred lines knotted into the skin over his heart. How strange, how fucked up was it that his entire life had been defined by a couple of twisting runes? He brushed his fingers over the brand, tracing a faded, white scar that travelled up the inside of his chest just beside the marks.

He had made that line himself, years ago. He couldn’t have been older than six, when he’d figured out that nobody else had a birthmark like he did. Richie hadn’t been a stupid child; it didn’t take long once he’d started going to school with other kids to realize that none of them had to perk up at the teacher’s every instruction like a whipped dog. After the first week or so, Richie had come home from first grade with tears all over his face.

“There’s—there’s something not right about me!” he’d sniffled to Maggie. “I’m not right! I just—why am I so different? The other kids think I’m a freak!” He’d been standing just outside of his parents’ bedroom. He’d wanted to go inside, to hug his mother’s leg and press his wet eyes into her skirt, but he couldn’t. From age five until he’d turned thirteen, his parents’ bedroom had been _ off-limits _ as per Maggie’s direction, and he wasn’t allowed past the doorway.

“Richard, we’ve talked about this,” Maggie had said, her tone searching for patience but not finding it. She’d vanished into the bathroom, and her voice had drifted out to him while she dabbed makeup onto her lips. “It’s your gift. Do you remember how I gave you a gift when you were little? You’re not a freak. You’re special.” She’d sailed out of the bathroom and over to the doorway.

“Really?” Richie had said.

“Yes,” Maggie had said. She hadn’t stepped outside of the bedroom — she’d already showered, and she didn’t need to be washing sticky boy-fingerprints off of her arms, thank you — but she had touched his shirt where it lay over his heart. “Very special,” she repeated. “This has made you so much better. I promise.”

Richie had nodded, but he hadn’t believed her. He didn’t think she was lying – he wasn’t old enough yet to question anything that Maggie said – but she didn’t know the whole story either. She hadn’t been there at recess earlier, when Jimmy Richardson had told him to “kiss my butt, Tozier!” She hadn’t heard the laughter from the other kids at what had happened next.

It had been sheer luck that Maggie found him in the upstairs bathroom a few hours later. He’d been perched on the edge of the counter, his shirt lying on the counter beside him. A stolen kitchen knife was in his hand. He had cut around the birthmark with the point of the blade and was doing his best to work his fingers under the skin to tear it away, trying to peel off his skin like the rind of an orange. Blood had been smeared all across the counter and mirrors, coating Richie’s hands like crimson gloves. Maggie had screamed louder than a fire engine.

Richie almost smiled, remembering that. He had never seen her move so fast, flying forward to snatch the knife out of his hands and ordering him to never, _ ever _ do anything like that again. She had been so worried. Angry too, of course, but her touch had been gentle as she’d cleaned away the blood. She couldn’t bring him to the hospital for stitches, not without a doctor seeing the brand on his chest, and so she’d bandaged him herself, her long fingers taping clean gauze over the wounds.

Richie didn’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t walked in on him that day. He didn’t know whether cutting off the brand would have actually lifted the curse or not. How different might his life had been? Richie sank back on the couch, trying to imagine. He could’ve kept playing the trumpet back in fifth grade, when Maggie demanded that he stop because it gave her headaches to listen to him practice. Stan wouldn’t have started looking at him differently, like Richie was some wind-up toy to rewire. Maybe he’d actually know what it was his father did at work all day. Wentworth always sent him on his way when it seemed like Richie wanted to have a conversation. 

He wouldn’t know what it felt like to have Hockstetter’s hands in his hair and gravel digging into his knees.

He wouldn’t know what sound Eddie’s skull made as it smacked against the floor of the school hallway.

He wouldn’t have known that Bill could look at him with so much disgust.

Patches of light slid across the floor as the sun sank lower in the sky. Sunset was hours away, but Richie felt as though he had been awake for days. A deep exhaustion had settled into the inner reaches of his bones. He wished he could call Bill to ask how Eddie was doing. To apologize. He wished he could call his parents and ask them to come home so that he wasn’t trapped by himself in this vacant house. But he couldn’t do either: the curse still held his voice locked inside his chest.

_ Maybe that’s a good thing _ , he thought to himself. _ Maybe Bill was right to tell me to stay away. _After all, what sort of friend was he, really? Too selfish to tell Bill and Eddie after all these years. Too cowardly to tell Stan what Hockstetter and Bowers had made him do. Too fucking weak to get himself away from Eddie. All Bowers had needed to do was point him in the right direction, and Richie had jumped to obey like a well-trained bitch. He was

_ (a monster) _

pathetic.

_ (“What the fuck is wrong with you?”) _

_ (“You’re just like a fucking doll aren’t you? Just a pretty doll that stays in whatever position we put you _ . _ ”) _

_ (“I don’t know what to do with you, Richard, I really don’t.”) _

The phone rang, startling Richie so badly that he nearly kicked over the coffee table. He stared at the receiver. He could answer, but what good would that do? It could be his parents, calling to remind him to vacuum or whatever the fuck. It could be Bowers or Hockstetter, laughing and gloating on the other end, telling him to come meet them so they could pick up where they’d left off on Wednesday night. Or it could be one of his friends, Bill most likely, calling to tell Richie that, thanks but no thanks, he could stay away from them since he’d turned into a violent headcase. The phone rang and rang. Richie didn’t move to answer it. Finally, the call clicked over to the answering machine, but no message began recording. The tape must have been full.

The air was cold on Richie’s chest. He buttoned his shirt closed over his scar, using his burnt hand even though it hurt. God, he was tired. So fucking tired. And so _ empty _. Shouldn’t he be crying? Screaming, maybe? Or at least angry? He felt only hollow, and that was enough to terrify him.

_ (“What the fuck is wrong with you?”) _

He didn’t want to feel like this anymore, as though a sucking void was pulling him slowly to pieces from the inside. He didn’t want to listen to his thoughts spinning on endless repeat inside his brain.

But maybe he didn’t have to

Richie sat up as the thought came to him. He thought of Maggie, of her dreamy unconcern, and once the idea had come to him he couldn’t let it go. He stood. The room stuttered around him before steadying, and Richie clutched the armrest of the couch while he waited for his head to stop pounding. Then he hurried up the stairs.

His parents’ bedroom was at the far end of the hall, at the very back of the house. A hazy image of himself, teary-eyed and small, seemed to hover just outside the doorway, but Richie gritted his teeth and blinked until the vision disappeared. 

He eased one of the double doors open and slipped quietly inside. A large bed took up the center of the room, flanked by a pair of matching bedside tables. Windows above the headboard let a flood of afternoon light into the room, and that same blue sky glared in through the glass. A triptych of painted birds hung on the right wall. These weren’t birds like the posters that hung in Stan’s bedroom, lovingly chosen and with the paper chipping away at the corners. These birds reminded Richie of the taxidermied animals he’d seen in the seventh grade, when his class had taken a field trip to the ranger station at Acadia National Park. Their feathers were sketched in bright colors across the canvas, but their eyes were black and opaque.

He crept farther into the room, inhaling the faint smell of his mother’s citrus perfume that tinged the air. Despite the evening sunlight that fell across the bedspread, the room seemed somehow sterile and unwelcoming. Richie didn’t waste time loitering. To the left was the master bathroom, dominated by a shower big enough for two and with separate counters on either side of the room. Richie stepped inside and went without hesitation to his mother’s counter, which was stocked with neatly arranged bottles of perfume, hair products, and tubes of makeup. When Richie had been little, and before he’d been banned from the room entirely, he used to like to spray the different perfumes, admiring the jeweled vials and sniffing all the scents until his nose could no longer distinguish which was which. Of course, Maggie had put a stop to that when she’d figured out why all her perfumes were being used up. They were too expensive for Richie to be playing with, and besides, boys shouldn’t play with perfume, she’d said.

Richie scanned through the various jars but came up empty-handed. He rifled through the drawers below the sink, growing more anxious as each successive drawer left him disappointed. Had Maggie taken it with her up to Bangor? Richie could’ve sworn she left a spare— Ah. He opened the cabinet to the left of the sink and there it was. An unobtrusive, orange pill bottle.

Richie plucked it from its shelf and scanned the label.

> **Center Street Drug Store**
> 
> **16 Center Street**
> 
> **Derry, ME, 04434**
> 
> **Rx: 6204873**
> 
> **Magdalene Tozier**
> 
> **140 Bluejay Road, Derry, ME, 04434**
> 
> ** For the management of anxiety, take 1 capsule by mouth every 4-6 hours. Do not exceed 4 capsules in a 24 hour period.**
> 
> **Valium (Diazepam) x 5mg capsules**
> 
> **Refill (⅘)**

The bottle was half-full. Richie popped open the top and looked at the round, yellow pills inside.

_ So, you’re what makes my mom float, huh? _ he thought.

He’d never taken Valium. Hell, he’d never taken any sort of drugs, unless you counted the occasional cigarette he swiped from Wentworth’s packs. He’d never really wanted to take drugs anyway — Richie Tozier could find his chucks just fine without a chemical boost, excuse you very much — and besides, he saw how they made Maggie act. Like she was inside a painting, and everything around her had no more substance than a few streaks of ink. As though she herself was a painting, fixed into position by the artist and left to sit and look pretty. Richie wasn’t sure what that was supposed to feel like, but judging from his mother’s dreamy smiles, it was pretty damn good.

Richie figured he could use some good right now.

He set the bottle down and reached for one of the glasses his mother kept stocked by the side of the sink. The movement pulled his shirt across his shoulders, and Richie grimaced as the fabric snagged on the dried blood there. He glanced up into the mirror. A second mirror was mounted above the sink on the opposite wall, where Wentworth kept his toiletries, and Richie pulled off his sweatshirt and used the doubled reflection to examine his back. Blood had soaked through his T-shirt. It would be ruined now. There was no way Richie could get out a stain that large, even with all the baking soda at Costello’s. 

Sighing, Richie wet a washcloth and unbuttoned his shirt so he could work it off his shoulders. He might as well deal with this now—he didn’t know what Valium did, exactly, but Maggie never seemed capable of doing more than sitting, standing, and talking, and he didn’t want to get high with blood all over him. The stuck fabric tugged at the cuts, but Richie managed to pry it loose without reopening any of them. He shrugged out of the shirt, and then, awkwardly, reached over his shoulder with the washcloth to sponge at the dried blood. In the dual mirrors, he watched pink water run down his back and dampen the hem of his jeans. He cleaned the washcloth and reached back again. The cuts stung and burned. It took a minute or two, but Richie was patient, and when he had removed as much of the blood as he could, he dropped the soiled washcloth in the sink.

For the first time, he could see the cuts more clearly in the mirrors, and Richie frowned. They were more even than he had imagined they would be. At the time, Richie had thought Bowers was just slashing willy-nilly, but these looked… almost intentional. There was a pattern to them. He stepped backwards, trying to get closer to the mirror behind him, squinting at the cuts. There were lots of straight lines, almost like— 

Richie’s vision aligned all at once, and he saw what he had been missing. They were letters, Bowers had carved a fucking _ word _ into his skin. Richie hadn’t put it together it at first, because of the blood and the jagged way the letters had been cut. They were spiky and uneven, but Richie traced them with his eyes. He could feel his hands going numb. He thought they might be shaking again.

F-U-C-K-D-O-L-L

_ (“Bark, Tozier,” Bowers said, grinning. “C’mon, should be easy for you, shouldn’t it? You’re a whiny bitch anyway.” _

_ Richie bit his tongue. He wouldn’t, he _ ** _wouldn’t_ ** _ , but it was a meaningless thought because he could feel pressure growing under his ribs anyway. He bit down harder, hard enough that the coppery taste of blood flooded thick in his mouth. _

_ “C’mon, Dollface,” Hockstetter coaxed, giggling. “Give us a bark, go on.” _

_ And Richie’s mouth opened, and—) _

Richie didn’t notice the pill bottle slipping from between his fingers.

_ (“Thank you,” Richie said, his voice a wreck, and both Hockstetter and Bowers howled with laughter. _

_ “This is too fucking easy,” Bowers said. He handed the crowbar to Hockstetter, who took it with a grin. “We should get Belch and Victor down here next time, I bet they’d fucking love this.” _

_ Hockstetter took a few practice swings, winding up like a batter preparing to hit a home run. “Maybe,” he said. “Might be fun. Think Victor still has those old car batteries from his dad’s pickup?” _

_ “Dunno,” Bowers said, shrugging. “Why?” _

_ “I’ll tell you later,” Hockstetter said. He winked at Richie. “You know what you can do with a couple of car batteries, don’t you, Fuckdoll?” _

_ Richie didn’t answer. His chest heaved up and down as Hockstetter stepped close to him, and then there was a whistling sound as the crowbar cleaved through the air—) _

The edges of the room wavered. Distantly, Richie realized that his throat was stinging as he pulled in breaths that were too harsh, too shallow to do any good.

_ (His hands fluttered on his knees, desperate to reach up and knock Hockstetter away. But he couldn’t move. He could barely fucking _ ** _breathe_ ** _ , and pain was battering through his throat and jaw. Hockstetter was making small, grunting noises above him. _

_ “C’mon, Fuckdoll, I can’t do all the work here,” he panted. His pace slowed, and Richie took the opportunity to draw in a shuddering gasp of air. “Suck me off like you mean it,” Hockstetter ordered. _

_ Richie jerked, and the curse was pulling him forward, writhing inside him like his veins were trying to tear loose from his skin—) _

Richie came back to himself, gripping the edge of his mother’s sink with both hands. His jaw ached. His lungs burned, and he forced himself to drag in several deep gasps, feeling as though he hadn’t breathed in days. Pain stabbed into his temples. Sweat dampened his hairline and beaded along the jut of his collarbone. With a trembling hand, he gripped his own wrist in the same place where Eddie had grabbed him earlier that day. _ Breathe _ , he told himself, and he remembered how Eddie had said the same thing, his lowered voice strong enough to lean on. _ That’s it. Just breathe with me. _

Richie stared at the letters carved into his back. _ Now I’ve got the matching set, _ he thought nonsensically. _ Scars on my chest and scars on my back. There go my days of tanning at the beach. _

The idea that one day, far in the future, he would have to see these scars on himself — at the beach or anywhere — pressed down on him.

Until that moment, Richie had still been holding on to some hope that things could return to normal. He could’ve found a way to deal with Bowers and Hockstetter. He could’ve begged his friends’ forgiveness, and they could go back to messing around in the Barrens after school and planning their summers together. But looking at that word

_ ( _ _ F-U-C-K-D-O-L-L _ _ ) _

drawn in red slashes over his shoulders, Richie felt the last of that hope slipping away. How could he possibly fix this? And what would be the point? No matter what happened, there would always be another Bowers, or another Hockstetter,

_ (or another Maggie) _

ready to take advantage of him. Richie imagined all the years stretching out ahead of him, all the orders he had yet to be given, and all the people he had yet to hurt. How could he live like this?

_ (Fuck this. Fuck everything. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t do this anymore, I can’t) _

Richie’s eyes fell once again on the bottle of pills. 

_ (“Where does this end, Richard?” Maggie had said) _

And wasn’t that the fucking question? How far would he let himself go? Was he selfish enough to stay around, when he could go berserk with a word?

_ (“Are you scared, Dollface?” Hockstetter had crooned) _

Yes. He was. But not of the pills.

_ (“What the fuck kind of friend are you, Rich?” Bill had shouted) _

The crack of his own fist meeting Eddie’s cheek echoed loud in his mind.

_ (I can’t do this anymore) _

_ (I _ ** _won’t_ ** _ do this anymore) _

The thought came to him, and Richie waited for the horror that such a thought should bring. He waited. And waited. There was an emotion inside of him, sure, but it wasn’t disgust, or revulsion. Richie turned the emotion over, trying to pin a name to it, and couldn’t. All he knew was that a calm sense of stillness had settled over him, and that stillness wasn’t unwelcome.

_ I won’t do this anymore _, he thought again, and it seemed as though the awful blankness inside of him finally faded away. 

_ Oh _, he thought.

He swiped up the bottle and the water glass, leaving his sweatshirt on the floor and the bloody washcloth balled up in the sink. Maggie could clean it herself when she got home. That would be a first for her. He went down the hall to his bedroom and toed the door open, stepping inside to where the early evening sunlight was bathing the room in a golden glow. From downstairs, the phone began to ring again, but Richie ignored it. He threw open his windows, letting in a rush of spring air. The smells of cold earth and new growth swirled past him. Richie breathed them in.

He set down the pills and the water beside his bed, then closed the door to his room to block out the insistent ringing of the telephone. How long would it take before someone opened the door to check on him? Three days? Richie wasn’t sure when Wentworth and Maggie would return, but surely not earlier than that. The image of his body lying cool and motionless, alone for three days made him pause, but he shoved it aside. It could’ve been Eddie lying like that, if Bowers’ plan had worked.

He pulled on a soft flannel against the breeze coming in through his window, then sat on the edge of his bed and popped open the pill bottle. He took out the first pill, rolling the small, yellow tablet between his thumb and forefinger before placing it on his tongue. He washed it down with a sip of water. Then he took another pill and swallowed it down. And another. And another. A sense of peace, of _ rightness _ settled over him. This would be best. For everyone.

Richie didn’t stop until the bottle was empty. He dropped the bottle to the floor, kicked off his shoes, and lay on his bed with his arms folded over his stomach. He looked up at the ceiling and waited.

Downstairs, the phone stopped ringing.

How long would it take? Richie didn’t know. He didn’t feel anything yet. This was alright though, lying back and watching the dust motes drift through the sunlight. He remembered the sunlight that day in the Barrens, that last day before everything had fallen apart, after Stan had saved him from jumping off the Kissing Bridge. He and Bill had played cards in the grass, Bill swearing whenever Richie won a hand. Richie had felt so happy then. Before he’d realized how fast everything could change for the worst. Eddie had been laughing, stretched out on his stomach in the grass — too distracted and relaxed to worry about his allergies, for once. Remembering that made Richie smile.

But then Eddie’s face changed, his smile turning down, and Richie remembered the blood that coated his chin as Richie hit him.

_ Never again, _ Richie told himself. How much time had passed? His thoughts felt slower than usual. _ I’ll never hurt anyone again. And nobody will be able to tell me to do it. _

The knowledge filled him with a sort of bubbly triumph. He wanted to laugh, but his mouth wouldn’t move quite right. He experienced no fear as he felt the numbness spreading in his lips and face. He was calm. Joyful, almost. He slitted his eyes open, watching the specks of dust floating in the evening light. They were mesmerizing. From outside his windows, he could hear leaves rustling in the big tree in the backyard. The sound seemed muffled, as though Richie had water in his ears. Was this how his mom lived all the time?

The thought wasn’t particularly funny, but Richie wanted to smile anyway. He closed his eyes again, unconcerned that he could no longer feel his fingers or his toes. _ This isn’t bad at all _, he thought. He listened to the rush of his breath in and out of his lungs. He listened to the beating of his heart, which reverberated through him like a drum.

_ Ba-boom. _

_ Ba-boom. _

Was that the phone ringing again? Richie couldn’t be sure. The world outside his body was growing blurrier, fading away below the stretch and pound of his heart.

_ Ba-boom. _

_ Ba-boom. _

_ Ba-boom. _

_ Ba-boom. _

Another noise broke through, another steady pounding. Richie tried to frown. The banging was close by. Very close. It sounded as though it might have been coming from downstairs. But the muscles in his face wouldn’t respond anymore, and so Richie gave up. His chest rose and fell slowly. The pauses between his breaths grew longer.

_ Ba-boom. _

_ Ba- _

_ boom. _

There was a crashing from downstairs, a shatter of breaking glass, but Richie barely heard it. His thoughts smoothed out into an unbroken sheet of water, polished and still.

_ Ba- _

_ boom. _

** **

_ Ba- _

** **

_ Boom. _

** **

And then the door to his room slammed open.

~

“Richie? _ Richie? _”

Hands grabbed his shoulders, shook hard. Richie didn’t know what the hands wanted, so he let his head roll back limply on his neck.

“Richie! Jesus Christ, what did you do? Wake up! Wake up, you asshole!”

The curse hissed, sparking like a live wire, but Richie was too far outside of himself to feel it. The sting of the curse was nothing more than a crackle of lightning over a distant horizon.

“I said wake up, dammit!” The voice was high and scared. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know! Was he— wait. Look.” Another voice. Something clattered, and there was a sharp intake of breath. “I don’t suppose he takes antidepressants?”

The first voice spoke again. “Oh fuck— Richie, what the fuck, _ wake up! _ Wake the fuck up!” Something cracked against Richie’s cheek, but no pain followed. The sound reached him through a layer of thick, fleecy cotton.

“Stan!” The second voice, snapping like a whip. “Come on, help me get him on the floor.”

“But he— he won’t wake up! Rich, c’mon, I said wake—”

“Stan, shut up! Look, he’s still breathing.”

“But—”

“Come on! Hurry!”

Hands slid under Richie’s armpits. Another pair of hands took his knees.

“C’mon, Richie, c’mon, don’t do this, you fucking asshole, don’t you dare fucking die you son of a bitch, I swear to God,” babbled a voice from somewhere above his head.

The hands lifted, and Richie went away for a little while.

~

Richie floated in the darkness behind his eyelids. His blood was surging in his veins, but sluggishly. He didn’t mind it.

“-you hear me?”

“Set this by his left shoulder.”

“A fucking _ candle? _ Bev, this isn’t the fucking _ Believers _!”

“Just do it!”

Richie slipped away to the feeling of a warm hand closing around his own.

~

** **

“-doing?”

“Put that there, no, _ there _, right there.”

“Do you even know how to do this?”

“You’ve got a better idea? Spread this over his throat.”

“I—”

“Fuck, fuck, hurry up! He’s not fucking breathing!”

~

Someone was humming close by Richie’s head. He couldn’t recognize the melody, but something about it seemed familiar all the same. It made him want to scratch at the scar on his chest.

“Is it working? He’s not— ow!”

The humming continued, but there was a movement of air and a _ thwacking _noise. The voice fell silent. If Richie had been aware enough to guess, he’d have said that the person humming had reached over to quiet the other with a punch.

The humming grew louder. A strange tingle was running up and down Richie’s body, as though he wanted to shiver but couldn’t remember how. The humming grew louder still, and all at once the shiver coalesced, the tingle turning into a network of sparks that gripped every muscle and pulled it taut. Richie felt his back arch, his jaw clench, his fingers curl into claws.

“What the hell!” someone cried.

The humming softened. Richie’s body fell back to the floor, and now he could feel the hard, wooden slats beneath him. What the hell was happening? He tried to open his eyes and couldn’t.

“Richie? Richie wake up, c’mon.” Hands again on his shoulders, shaking him. When Richie didn’t respond, the hands withdrew. “Fuck. What do we do?”

In answer, the humming grew stronger, and the tingle started up in Richie’s fingertips. This time, as he felt his muscles contract, bowing him upwards off the floor, his lungs shuddered.

“He’s breathing again! Holy shit Bev, this is…” The voice trailed off, somewhere between wonder and horror.

The humming paused, and the other voice spoke, sounding ragged. “We gotta keep going, it’s not out of his system yet. Get that bowl and put it by his head.”

“Why?”

“Because once we pull enough of that shit back out of him, he’s going to throw it all up, and I’d rather he wasn’t throwing it up on either of us.”

“Oh.”

“Now come on, just since he’s breathing again doesn’t mean it’ll get easier. We’ve gotta go fast before he can reabsorb them.”

“Okay, go, I’ve got it up here.”

The humming began again. Richie could feel it in his ears, more solid than humming should be. He became aware of the blood flowing through his arms and legs. He could feel it. The numbness was receding. Richie scrambled after it, trying to draw it back around himself like a blanket, but the humming resonated in his bones, rattling him from the inside as though he’d swallowed a truck engine. His back arched once more, his muscles clenching tightly, and this time Richie felt the pain of it. No, that wasn’t right. It didn’t hurt, exactly. It was the sensation of the blood being pulled inside his body, the slow extraction of the Valium from his cells.

All at once, nausea gripped him. Richie’s eyes flew open.

“Catch him!” someone shouted. Richie lurched upright, barely registering the large bowl that was shoved under his face before he vomited. He choked, his stomach convulsing, and a supporting hand held his shoulders as he threw up again. Every part of his body ached.

“Rich?”

Richie tried to lift his head, but it was heavier than seemed possible. His breath fluttered in his throat. He rolled his eyes to the side and caught the smallest glimpse of Stan’s bone-white face before his exhaustion caught him. He fell back into unconsciousness.

~

When he next opened his eyes, he couldn’t have been out for long. Someone had carried him to the living room and laid him on the couch facing the kitchen. The lights were on, but the last of the dusk brightness still lingered in the room.

“Richie?” said a voice.

With an effort, Richie turned his head. Beverly Marsh was sitting on the opposite couch with her skirt tucked around her knees. Richie blinked at her, and she gave him a tired smile. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

The answer was pretty damn shitty. Richie was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would vomit again, and so he fell asleep without bothering to reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: depression, past self-harm, attempted suicide, child neglect, past violence, past sexual assault. If any of those are a trigger for you, I honestly would recommend just skipping this chapter, because there's no getting away from it. 
> 
> A brief summary **(DON'T READ FURTHER IF YOU WANT TO AVOID SPOILERS):**  
Richie goes home, feeling extremely depressed and experiencing self-hatred. He has flashbacks to when Hockstetter and Bowers attacked him, and also remembers times during his childhood when the curse affected him. Finally, he decides to overdose on his mother's pills so that nobody can order him to hurt anyone else, and so that he doesn't have to take orders anymore. Stan and Beverly find him, and perform some sort of procedure on him to prevent him from successfully overdosing.
> 
> Phew, okay, so, yeah. Please let me know what you think! Im really not sure about this chapter, and I'm considering rewriting it to make it less, uh, horribly depressing, so any thought you guys have would be greatly appreciated :) 
> 
> I really do promise that comfort is coming in the next chapter. Sorry about how long it's taking... I am going to try really hard to post it by next Sunday, but my work schedule is going to be a little crazy this week and then it is my birthday(!), so I don't know how much time I will have to work on it. It's a really important chapter and I want to do it justice, so please forgive me if it is a couple days late.
> 
> Thank you again for all the support you guys have given me! If you liked it, if you didn't, if you have comments or questions or just want to chat, hit me up in the reviews! I love hearing feedback, it is my lifeblood <3
> 
> Sheesh, enough will all these end notes, I'll see you guys (hopefully) next Sunday!


	7. Part 7 - 1991: Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan set his mug down so that he could lean forward and force Richie to meet his gaze. “Richie,” he said. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends! Happy not-Sunday!
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience on this chapter. This thing was -- pardon my language-- a bitch to edit. Honestly, I would have been happy to edit it for another few days, but I didn't want to draw it out for you guys (read: if the editing/content isn't up to par, we can blame it on my impatience). With that said, please enjoy THE MOST DIALOGUE HEAVY CHAPTER LITERALLY EVER. JeSUS. These kids would not stop talking. They had a lot to hash out, but still. Also, this chapter is a bit of a bear because it's so damn long, but hopefully it has a lot of the things you guys have been waiting for :) Richie's a mess, but we're gonna start putting him back together.
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who left kudos and reviews, you guys are my goddamn heroes T.T And thank you for the feedback on last chapter! I was so worried that it went too far, but you all were very kind to me about it. You guys are the best! And thank you for all the birthday wishes, you guys are adorable and I love you.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Nothing too bad in this chapter (well, comparatively). Lots and lots of swearing, mentions of a past-suicide attempt, mentions of child neglect, mentions of past violence and past sexual assault.

Richie found out later that it was Bev who broke his front window. She’d smashed right through the leftmost panel of Maggie’s front door, far enough over that she could reach inside to slide back the lock. There was a spot of dried blood on one of the remaining shards that clung to the frame, where Bev had nicked herself the night before. Afterwards, when Richie had woken on the couch to find Stan asleep in the armchair beside him, they’d cleaned up the mess of shattered glass together. Stan had manned the broom, sweeping the glittering fragments into a neat pile while Richie held the dustpan steady.

Richie also found out that it was Bev who had pulled him back into the land of the living, using nothing but a few candles, a homemade herb salve, and willpower. It turned out that Beverly Marsh had a lot of hidden talents.

Stan told Richie the entire story the next morning, standing in the kitchen as he set about making coffee with Maggie’s ornate, stovetop coffee maker. The coffee maker had been a gift from Wentworth some years back. He had found it during one of his infrequent overseas business trips, somewhere in Europe. Or maybe it had been Africa. Richie didn’t know, really, but Wentworth had brought it back for Maggie regardless; two tiers of heavy steel with etchings of flowers and deer carved into the metal. The coffee it made was dark and strong, and Stan had needed to use both hands to haul the maker down from the shelf, grunting with the effort. 

A quiet calm reigned in the kitchen as Stan heated the water, found the coffee filters, and fixed two steaming mugs to place on the table between them. The thick, rich smell of roasted coffee was warm and familiar. Richie took his mug but didn’t drink. He only rotated the mug between his fingers. A headache was throbbing behind his eyes, and a soreness lingered in his joints. 

He should drink. It would probably help chase away this strange, off-kilter sensation that inhabited his body, as though his skin was at once too tight and too loose. He considered it, but lifting the mug seemed like a lot of effort, right then. Steam rose from his cup. It hung like sheaves of silk in the morning light.

“So,” Richie said. He rotated his mug again.

“So,” Stan echoed.

Neither of them looked at each other.

“Where’s Beverly?” Richie asked, after a moment.

“She fell asleep around one,” Stan said. “She’s up in your room.”

“You’re saying I have a girl in my bed?” Richie said. He grinned a little, but it felt stilted. As though he’d forgotten how to smile, and he needed to read the back of the box for directions. “What am I doing, wasting time down here?”

Stan gave him an unimpressed look. “Rich. Not the time.”

“Sorry.” Richie took a sip of his coffee, then winced as hot liquid scalded his tongue. “So. Why the hell is Beverly Marsh slumming it up in my bedroom? What happened? After… after I left school? I didn’t— I wanted to call, but—”

“But you were too busy popping pills?” Stan asked sharply.

“I— fuck you, Stan,” Richie said. The words were accusatory, and Richie felt himself recoil from them. Stan couldn’t judge him. Stan didn’t have any  _ goddamn right _ to judge him. “Bill told me to shut up, before he told me to fuck off. So no, I couldn’t call,” Richie snapped. “Why the fuck are you even here, if that’s all you came to ask?”

Stan crossed his arms. He stared at Richie, his eyes carefully blank, and held Richie’s gaze without speaking. 

Finally, Richie had to glance away. He looked into the depths of his mug instead, where broken fractals of light reflected off the surface of his cooling coffee. “Sorry,” Richie said. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just— I’m a bit confused, Stanny. I don’t really know what’s going on anymore.”

Stan’s mouth twisted, and he let out a small sigh that sounded too weary for a fifteen-year-old boy. “No, fuck, I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry. It makes sense that you’re confused.”

Richie nodded. “Fill me in, then?” 

Stan pulled up one knee to hug it against his chest. “Okay. Right. Well, after the, uh, you know,” he began, wincing. He slid his leg back to the floor and picked up his mug to cradle it between his palms. Richie imagined that he could see the warmth seeping out from the porcelain and into Stan’s fingers. “After you fought with Eddie,” Stan continued, and it was such a bullshit description, so generous and so wrong that Richie almost laughed. He didn’t though. He picked at an invisible spot on the handle of his cup.

“After your fight,” Stan said. “Well — I mean you were there, so you know—”

“How is he?” Richie interrupted. He wrapped a hand around his mug, squeezing tightly, until his knuckles stood out pale under his skin. The heat burned against his palm. “I didn’t— I didn’t hurt him too badly, did I? I couldn’t see, and then I didn’t have a chance to check…”

Stan’s expression softened. “He’s okay.”

Richie shook his head. “Don’t lie to me, Stan. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

“I’m not lying,” Stan said. “I wouldn’t. Not about something like this. He’s okay.”

“But, I mean, the blood, there was so much fucking blood—”

“Hey, I’m serious,” Stan said. At Richie’s disbelieving expression, he gave a small smile.    
“Really, he’s alright,” he promised. “Have you ever punched someone before? You’re not exactly a fighter, Rich.”

Richie didn’t reply. He remembered how much it had hurt, that night in the dump, when he’d punched Henry Bowers in the face. Richie didn’t want to mention that though. One uncomfortable conversation at a time. 

Stan blew on the top of his steaming coffee. “You gave him a bloody nose,” he admitted. “Some bruises. Shook him up, obviously. And apparently you, um, you cracked one of his cheekbones.”

Richie flinched. 

“But apart from that, he really is fine,” Stan hastened to add. “The hospital didn’t even keep him overnight. I called him earlier to check.”

Richie stared into the depths of his coffee. The light coming in through the kitchen windows made his headache pound. “I still hurt him,” he said quietly.

“No, you didn’t,” Stan said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t you. Not really.”

“So I imagined all the fucking blood I washed off my knuckles afterwards?” Richie said. His voice broke halfway through the question, and he took a large swallow of coffee to avoid looking in Stan’s direction. “‘Cause I’m pretty fucking sure I washed a lot of fucking blood off of my—”

“Stop that,” Stan said, and his tone was so fierce that Richie lifted his eyes. Stan was glaring, but not at Richie. He was glaring at Richie’s burned hand which lay on the table, curled into a loose fist. Richie yanked it into his lap, and Stan set his mug down so that he could lean forward and force Richie to meet his gaze. “Richie,” he said. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t even know what happened,” Richie muttered.

Stan raised an eyebrow. “You’re right. I don’t. You gonna tell me?”

“I— we’re talking about Eddie, not me,” Richie said.

Stan snorted. “Uh huh. Well, whatever happened, it  _ wasn’t your fault _ ,” he stressed. “I know you. You would never hurt Eddie. Besides, you told me yourself, someone ordered you to do it.”

Richie frowned. He couldn’t remember saying anything like that, but that didn’t mean much. After Bowers had cornered him, his memories took on a hazy quality, like a reel of poorly-developed film. He took a sip of coffee to buy himself some time, using his mug as a shield between himself and Stan’s earnest face. “Does it matter?” he said.

Stan sat back. “Does what matter?” he asked.

“Who the fuck cares whether someone told me to do it or not?” Richie said. He set his mug down hard enough that coffee slopped over the rim. “I wasn’t strong enough to stop myself. Eddie still got his cheek broken.”

“Of course it matters!” Stan said. “What the fuck, Rich? You can’t blame yourself for what happened, you didn’t have any say in it!”

“Bill blames me,” Richie mumbled.

The muscles in Stan’s jaw clenched. “Bill doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about,” he said.

“Maybe not,” Richie said. “That doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

“Richie, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. I’m going to keep saying that until I beat it through your thick skull.”

Richie shrugged, tracing a fingernail into the grooves of the wooden table. 

Stan looked at him, then let out a frustrated breath through his nose. “Jesus, we’re not getting anywhere. We’ll come back to that, I guess. Let me tell you what happened first,” he said. “It’ll clear things up a bit, hopefully.”

“Yeah, alright,” Richie said. He waved his uninjured hand in a  _ go on _ gesture. His head ached, but he took a sip of coffee and rubbed the tips of his fingers against his temple, forcing himself to pay attention.

“So, after you, ah—”

“After I bashed Eddie’s head into the floor?” Richie asked.

“After someone  _ made you _ bash Eddie’s head into the floor,” Stan corrected, “well— I mean, fuck, I looked up and you were gone. I was trying to check on Eddie to make sure he was okay, and then Bill was next to me, yelling something, and you were gone. I didn’t— I didn’t know what to do. Because Eddie needed help, but you— I mean, we all knew something was wrong, Rich, ‘cause you were acting like a goddamn lunatic, so I needed to go find you too. But I couldn’t just leave Eddie. 

“Bill was— well, he was mad. We had to help Eddie up, and get him over to the nurse’s office, and Jesus, it’s a good thing most of the other kids had left already, because we must have looked like a horror-show. Bill was swearing a blue streak.”

“And Eddie? How was Eddie?” Richie said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. If Eddie hated him now, he… well, he didn’t know what he’d do. The simple possibility of it gave him a sick, swooping sensation in his guts.

“Just dazed, mostly,” Stan said. “I think you, ah, you might have given him a concussion.” He paused, examining Richie sidelong, but Richie only nodded for him to continue. Richie kept his burnt hand clenched under the table. “Anyway, we got him to the nurse’s office,” Stan continued. “Nurse Hilla sat him down to clean him up, and Bill and I were just sort of standing off to the side like idiots while she called his mom.”

“His mom, oh  _ fuck _ ,” Richie said. He dropped his face into his good hand. “She hated me before this, she’s gonna fucking  _ murder  _ me now. I— oh fuck.”

“Yeah. I, uh, there was definitely some yelling on the phone when I called Eddie last night,” Stan admitted. “But don’t worry!” he added, as Richie made a pathetic noise through his fingers. “I’m sure Eddie’ll talk her around. Or something. Uh, anyway, Bill was being a jackass, because I told him we needed to go check on you too, but he didn’t want to— to leave Eddie there alone.” Stan was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. Richie watched him over the rim of his mug. “Anyway,” Stan said again. He shook his head, as though shaking himself back to the present. “I may have, uh, yelled at Bill a little bit.”

“You did?” Richie asked, taken aback. 

He didn’t know how he felt, listening to this story. Somewhere in his chest, there was a warmth at the knowledge that Stan had stood up for him, despite the fact that Richie had been treating his friends like shit all week. That Stan had insisted that they find Richie, even while the shape of Richie’s fist had been darkening a bruise on Eddie’s cheek. Stan-the-fucking-Man, Jesus. This kid.

Yet in another part of him, the warmth faded. Instead, there was a clawing dismay, deep in his chest, as though a small animal was trapped under his breastbone and gnawing to get out. Stan defended him, yes, but he had needed to defend him from Bill. Big Bill.

_ (“Just stay away from him!” he’d yelled. “Stay away from all of us!”) _

And Stan was holding back, Richie knew. The pauses and hesitations in his speech made it obvious. Stan was underplaying what had happened. 

Richie didn’t call him out on it. “Very unlike you, Staniel,” he said instead.

Stan flushed. “It was a goddamn stressful situation, okay? I didn’t know where you were or what the fuck was going on. I was trying to call your house with the nurse’s phone, but nobody was picking up, and Eddie was starting to freak out a bit because of all the blood around. And Bill was acting like an asshole.”

Richie took a sip of his coffee to hide the expression he could feel on his face. The coffee burned his throat on the way down. “What… what was Bill saying?” he asked, trying and failing to sound as though he didn’t care much about the answer.

“He— nothing much,” Stan said. “Just, uh, he was wondering why I wasn’t more angry with you. That’s it.”

Stan was lying. Richie had known Stan for long enough that he could recognize Stan’s nervous tapping of his fingernails on the lip of his mug. The coffee churned in Richie’s stomach and he pressed his lips together, breathing through his nose. He’d already thrown up enough in the past twenty-four hours. “Right,” he said. “What then?”

“I left,” Stan admitted. “I mean, I didn’t want to leave Eddie, but there wasn’t a whole lot I could do there, you know? Besides, I was worried. About you.”

“So you came to my house?” Richie guessed.

“Uh, no, actually,” Stan said, almost sheepish. “I thought you might have gone to the Barrens. I wouldn’t have checked your house until after everywhere else, since I know, uh, you don’t like hanging around with your parents that much.”

“What a diplomatic way to put it,” Richie muttered. “So what’d you do?”

“I ran into Bev,” Stan said.

“You what?”

“Beverly Marsh,” Stan said. “Well, more like she ran into me. She was looking for me.”

“She was looking for you?” Richie repeated, feeling stupid. “Why?”

“Because I knew something was wrong,” said a voice from behind him.

Richie made a  _ very manly noise thank you _ . His heart jumped up into his throat, and he nearly fell out of his chair as he whipped around to face the doorway. 

Beverly Marsh was leaning against the door jamb that led into the sitting room. Her red hair was tangled and loose down her back, flattened on one side by bedhead. It was obvious that she was tired — exhausted, maybe — from the wanness in her cheeks and the slump of her shoulders, but her blue eyes were clear. They flicked between Stan and Richie with a bright curiosity. She tugged at the sleeve of her lumpy, patched sweater, scrubbed a hand through her mess of hair, and stifled a yawn into one elbow. “Morning,” she said.

Richie gaped at her. “How long have you been standing there?” he demanded.

She shrugged. “Awhile.” 

“Jesus Christ— make noise, woman!”

Beverly giggled, then stopped, appearing almost surprised at herself for the sound. She pulled out a chair between Richie and Stan and sat down. “Mind if I smoke?” she asked. She took a half-empty carton from the pocket of her skirt and held it up.

Maggie would be pissed if she smelled cigarette smoke in her kitchen. She hated that Went smoked at all, and always made him go into the backyard if he wanted a puff. 

“Go for it,” Richie said.

“Thanks.” Beverly tapped out a cigarette, lit up, and blew a stream of smoke out of the side of her mouth. Her nails were painted a dark purple, but the paint was chipping and her nails were uneven where she had bitten off the corners.

“How are you feeling?” Stan asked her. He got up, pulling down a third mug from the cupboards and pouring Beverly her own cup of coffee. He slid the mug across the table to her, and Beverly accepted it with a wink and a grateful smile. She snagged the sugar bowl from where Richie had pushed it off to the side.

“Alright,” she said. “Tired. But I knew that would happen, so I was ready for it.” She poured a cascade of white sugar into her drink, stirred it with a fingertip, and took a long swallow. “I’ll probably go hunt up some food soon. Casting always takes it out of me.”

“What do you mean, ‘casting takes it out of you?’” Richie said. “And what does that mean, ‘you knew something was wrong?” And, fuck, while you’re here, why the fuck were you hanging around Kansas Street on Wednesday night?”

“I’ve had  _ one _ sip of coffee,” Beverly muttered to herself. “It’s too goddamn early for twenty questions.”

“It’s ten in the morning!” Richie said.

“Why were  _ you _ hanging around Kansas Street on Wednesday night?” Stan broke in, looking at Richie, but Richie ignored him.

Bev took another drag from her cigarette, then another drink of coffee. Then she took another drag. She seemed to be steeling herself. “I thought you could’ve guessed what I mean,” she said to Richie. Her words were slow and deliberate. She glanced at Stan, hesitating, and Stan nodded at her.

“He won’t freak out,” he said.

Bev didn’t look convinced, but she lowered her cigarette and turned back to Richie with a determined air. “I knew something was wrong,” she said, “because I have the Gift, Trashmouth.” She met his gaze, held it, and took another drink of coffee.

Richie stared at her. His thoughts spun, searching for traction and not finding it. His joints ached as though he had the flu — they’d been aching all morning, fuck — but that wasn’t right, was it? He wasn’t sick. The soreness had a sparking, twinging quality that sure as hell wasn’t normal for the flu. And someone had made him throw up those pills last night. “You  _ what? _ ” he said at last.

Bev rolled her eyes. “I have the Gift,” she repeated. She sounded relaxed, but Richie saw tension gathering in her shoulders. “I got it through my mother.”

“Oh,” Richie said. He clamped down hard on his first impulse, which was to scoot his chair as far away from her as possible. 

The Gift. Beverly Marsh had the fucking Gift?  _ Nobody _ had the fucking Gift. Meeting someone with the Gift was like meeting a goddamned unicorn. Well. Okay, no. Meeting someone who would  _ admit _ to having the Gift was like meeting a goddamned unicorn. Supposedly there were more of them around, but the smart ones lied on the U.S. Census whenever that bullshit came up, so estimated numbers were lower than the probable truth. Not that there was anything wrong about having the Gift. Not inherently, anyway, but knowing that didn’t do anything to make his sudden rush of 

_ (fear) _

discomfort go away.

The brand on Richie’s chest itched. He flexed his burnt hand, resisting the urge to scratch at his scar, reminded himself that Beverly Marsh had never done anything worse to him than hand him a jacket. “My Aunt Jaqueline has the Gift,” he said instead. “I’ve never met her though, I think she had a falling out with my parents when I was a kid.”

Beverly sucked in a breath of smoke and didn’t reply, but her shoulders lowered by a fraction.

“You’re the first person I’ve met to have it,” Stan put in. “You never let on about it at school. That’s not why Greta and all her bitch friends hate you, is it?”

“No,” Beverly said, and her voice was less wary now. “They’re just bitches.” 

Richie snorted a laugh. “What an understatement,” he said, and Beverly smiled. 

“You guys are taking it pretty well,” she said. “I’m— well, yeah, I don’t like to wave it around.”

“I don’t blame you,” Stan said. “People are so fucking superstitious, I can’t believe some of the stories that crop up. Remember last year, when there was that guy in Louisiana who told his girlfriend about his Gift, and she nailed a black cat to his front door?”

“Fucking psycho,” Richie muttered. “I remember reading about that one.”

Beverly took a long swig of her coffee. Her expression was a complicated blend of anger, nervousness, and resignation, and she fiddled with the sleeve of her sweater as she answered, “I remember that one too. And— and there are worse stories. My Mom—” She cut herself off and sat up, suddenly determined. “So you guys’ll understand when I ask you to keep this under wraps? Derry is a pretty liberal place, but most people still don’t like witchcraft or anything like that when it’s shoved in their face.”

Richie tapped his foot against hers under the table. “Well, we’re not most people. Also, Staniel here tells me you’re the one who smashed my front window, so I figure you’re someone I don’t want to piss off.”

Beverly blushed. “Right. Sorry about that.”

“Eh.” Richie waved a hand to show it didn’t matter. “I’ll make something up to my parents when they get back.” He glanced over at the note still pinned to the fridge, and Stan following his gaze and grimaced.

“They’re out of town again?” he asked Richie.

“Yeah, lucky for you two. Just imagine how shrill my Mom’s scream would be if she saw Bev smoking it up in my kitchen,” Richie said. He nodded at the pack Beverly had left on the table. “Mind if I bum one?”

She flicked the pack towards him. “Be my guest,” she said.

Richie lit up with Bev’s lighter and pulled in a lungful of smoke. The taste of tobacco seared in the back of his throat, and for a moment he was

_ (shivering in a gravel patch between two rows of junked cars, and Bowers was handing Richie a lit cigarette. “Go on,” Bowers said, grinning, and Richie took the cigarette with unsteady fingers. He turned his arm over, revealing the pale skin below his elbow, and pressed the cherried end of the cigarette hard against his exposed forearm—) _

somewhere else. Richie closed his eyes and clenched his teeth until the memory faded, and then he took another drag.

“Rich?” Stan asked, watching his face. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Richie said. He opened his eyes, annoyed with himself for spacing out. “So, where were we in this story? Bev found you with her mad Jean Gray mind powers, then what?”

Beverly frowned at him. “Who’s Jean Gray?”

“A superhero,” Stan told her.

“Total badass,” Richie said. “She’s crazy powerful, and she’s got red hair like you do.”

Beverly watched him without speaking. She seemed to be trying to decide whether he was laughing at her or not. “Okay, um. Well, anyway,” she said after a moment, “I could feel something was wrong. And I was wandering around the school, trying to figure out what the hell my Gift was trying to tell me, and that’s when I ran into Stan.”

“Wait, okay, so when you were on Kansas Street,” Richie interrupted. “Was that another time when you just knew someplace you should be?”

“Yeah, basically,” Bev said. “My Gift woke me up, and all of a sudden I had this strong feeling that I should go out to Kansas Street with an extra jacket.” She spread her hands. “Don’t ask me how it works, ‘cause I have no idea. I guess it differs from person to person, but most of the time it just feels like I have good intuition.”

“Why were you on Kansas Street?” Stan asked again, more insistently.

“Later,” Richie told him. “So Bev found you?”

Stan scowled. “Yeah. She marched right up to me with this really intense expression. I thought I was gonna get punched or something.”

“I wasn’t that bad!” Bev argued. “Besides, I could feel that we were running out of time. All I knew was that you were the person I was looking for, and we didn’t have time for any B.S.”

“So you told him you had freaky mind powers?” Richie said. “Bold move, damn.”

Bev blushed. “Like I said, we didn’t have time for bullshit. Besides, I— I just knew I could trust him, alright? Something felt right about it. And— I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. It was almost like I needed to tell him? Whenever my Gift tells me something, it’s really difficult not to go along with it.”

Richie’s scar itched again. “You know,” he said, “I think I actually know what you mean.” He glanced at Stan, but Stan gave his head a tiny shake. He hadn’t told Beverly about Richie’s curse, then.

“So Bev and I jumped on our bikes and got over here as fast as we could,” Stan said. “Bev was starting to freak out—”

“I could feel something was happening,” Beverly said. “I didn’t know what, but I knew we were running out of time.”

“And there was no answer when we knocked on the door,” Stan said, taking up the thread. “I just figured Bev had been wrong and you’d gone somewhere else, but when I looked over, Bev was holding this massive rock.” He grinned, unable to help himself.

“Well, I knew we had to get in!” Bev said defensively. “Anyway, I broke the window and Stan screamed like a little kid—”

“I did not!”

“And I unlocked the door but we still didn’t see you anywhere.”

Stan’s smile dimmed and vanished. “Yeah,” he said. “So we went upstairs to check your room and, well…” He trailed off, spinning his coffee mug between his palms.

Richie took a drink of his own coffee. It had cooled to tepid, and the bitter taste clung in Richie’s mouth. Silence stretched out between the three of them. The smoke from Beverly’s and Richie’s cigarettes rose in graceful columns, twisting in the light coming in through the windows over the sink. From a few houses over, Richie heard the faint sound of a car starting up and backing into the street.

“What’d you guys do?” he asked finally. He rubbed his tired eyes, smudging his glasses. “I don’t remember any of that. Only — was someone humming?”

Beverly blew a smoke ring. It floated up towards the ceiling. “Me,” she said. She looked at Stan, but Stan was staring fixedly into the depths of his coffee. “Once we found you, we had to move fast, ‘cause you were already, um— your heartbeat was really slow. But my Mom taught me a few spells, back before she died, and one of ‘em was supposed to draw poison out of the body.” She got up and started searching through Richie’s cabinets for an ashtray. She kept her back to the table as she said, “my Dad used to drink a lot. And I guess my Mom was always worried that one of us would come home and find him after he drank himself too far.” She found a delicate teacup saucer and brought it over to the table. “I didn’t know if it would work — I never had to use it. But I always carry around at least some basic supplies with me, and when we found you… Well, it was worth a shot.”

“How old were you when your mom taught you that?” Richie asked.

“Maybe eight? I was surprised I remembered it, honestly.” Bev laughed and ground out her cigarette on Maggie’s saucer.

“Eight?” Richie repeated in disbelief. He tried to imagine a woman telling eight-year-old Beverly how to pump her own dad’s stomach, and quickly stopped. “Jesus.”

“Like I said, I never had to use it,” Beverly said. “He stopped drinking after my Mom died.” She gave Richie a once-over. “Seems like I did it right, though. How’re you feeling?”

“Pretty shitty,” Richie admitted. “But more sick-shitty than magic-shitty. Is this what a hangover is supposed to be like?”

She smirked. “Probably.”

From the living room, the phone began to ring. Stan raised his head from his contemplation of his coffee dregs. “That’s probably Bill,” he said. “I left a message at his house earlier. His mom told me she would get him to call over here once he woke up. Bev, would you mind getting it?” He gave her an inscrutable look.

“No problem,” Bev said easily. She went out, and Richie extinguished his cigarette on his mother’s saucer next to hers. The burning tobacco made a hissing noise as it was pressed to the smooth china.

“So,” he said into the silence that Beverly had left behind. The room suddenly felt much smaller. He realized he didn’t have anything more to say, so he took a drink of his cold coffee instead. When he lowered his mug, Stan was glaring at him from across the table. His eyes were suspiciously wet.

“‘So?’” Stan repeated. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

Richie shifted in his chair. “Um—” he said, but Stan cut him off.

“‘So?’” he said again. His voice rose, and Richie watched as he made a conscious effort to control it. “How about something like, ‘gee Stan, sorry for popping a bottle of my moms pills?’ Or, how about ‘thanks, Stan, for saving my freaking life with some weird-ass magic electroshock bullshit!’”

“Technically it was Beverly with the kinky electroshock—” Richie started, but trailed off when he saw Stan’s expression. “Sorry, not the time. Just a joke.”

“Just a joke?” Stan repeated.

“Well, I mean, I realized I might have a thing for electro-stimulation ‘cause let me tell you, my dick—”

“It’s not a fucking joke, Richie!” Stan shouted, and, for the first time, Richie realized just how tenuous Stan’s calm was. He’d been so composed the entire morning, but that composure was finally slipping. “You think anything about this is funny?”

Richie shook his head. “No, shit Stan, of course not—”

“You think it’s funny to find out your best friend tried to kill himself?” Stan demanded “You think it’s funny when he tries to laugh it off afterwards?”

“Stan, I didn’t mean it like—”

Stan banged his closed fists down on the table, and Richie broke off. Stan was crying fully now. His face was wet and angry. “You fucking asshole,” he hissed. “Don’t you  _ dare _ make this into a joke. I found you passed out on your fucking bed with an empty pill bottle next to your fucking  _ body— _ ”

“I know,” Richie said, in a small voice.

“Are you going to shut up and let me talk?” Stan shouted, and Richie shut up. Not because it was an order, but because it  _ wasn’t _ . Even now, when Stan was more upset with Richie than he had ever been, Stan was still careful with his words. “What the hell, Richie?” Stan went on. “Why would you— I know something’s been going on with you, but— you didn’t even talk to me first! So you just try to kill yourself?” Stan rubbed furiously at his eyes, smudging away the tears.

On impulse, Richie reached out and grabbed one of Stan’s hands. He held on, even as Stan tried to pull away. “I’m sorry,” he said. He forced Stan to meet his eyes so that Stan could see he was serious. It took Stan a minute to lift his gaze, and for the first time Richie saw the lingering terror that Stan had tried to hide.

“You weren’t breathing, Rich,” Stan said, so quietly that Richie had to lean forward to hear him. “You weren’t breathing or moving or anything.”

Richie swallowed against his own tears that rose up in the back of his throat. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I never meant for you to find me like that, Stan. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

Stan’s fingers tightened around Richie’s. “What?” he asked.

Richie paused, taken aback by the shift in Stan’s tone. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said again, but Stan shook his head.

“Richie, do you know why I’m upset?” he asked. He sounded almost scared to hear the answer.

Now Richie was completely confused. He glanced to the side, as if Maggie’s monstrous coffee maker might have a response etched somewhere in the metal. “I told you,” he said, after a minute. “I’m sorry that you had to deal with that, you shouldn’t have to—”

Stan’s grip crushed Richie’s in his own. “You fucking idiot,” he said. “That’s not what I’m pissed at you for, Richie!”

“It’s not?”

Stan let go of his hand and ran his own fingers through his curly hair, dislodging his yarmulke. He settled it back on his head and took a deep breath, visibly composing himself. “Rich, I’m not mad because Beverly and I had to perform some crazy detox witchcraft on you,” he said. His words were matter-of-fact, but his face was pale. “I’m mad because you thought it would be a good idea to swallow a bottle of pills. And I’m mad at myself for not noticing how bad things were getting for you, and I’m mad at Bill for yelling at you, and I’m fucking pissed at whoever took advantage of you like that.”

“Oh.” Richie flexed his burnt hand under the table.

“Yeah. Oh,” Stan said. He stared down at his lap, and when he next spoke, his words were so soft that Richie almost didn’t catch them. “Why’d you do it, Rich?” he asked. “Did you think we— what, that we wouldn’t care?” His voice dropped even lower. “Am I that shitty of a friend that you would think that?”

Richie sat bolt upright in his chair. “What?” he exclaimed. “Stan, no, you absolute twat! This isn’t— how could you even think that! It’s  _ me _ , you asshole! I fucking— I hurt Eddie! I hurt you and Bill, fuck! Did you forget all that?”

“It wasn’t—” Stan began, but Richie cut him off.

“Shove it with that bullshit, Stan,” he said angrily. “I was fucking there, okay. Yeah, sure, maybe I didn’t  _ want _ to do what I did, but I still did it. I’m the fucking nutsack who beat up his friends because he couldn’t— Because I couldn’t—” He broke off, pawing at his eyes and glaring out of the kitchen window. He took in a harsh breath to steady his voice, then said, “I wasn’t  _ me _ anymore Stan. Do you know what that feels like? And I just— I never wanted to feel like that again.”

Stan was quiet for several moments. Richie didn’t look at him, but he heard when Stan stood and came around the table to take in the chair beside Richie’s own. “Richie,” Stan said gently. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Fuck off,” Richie said, and his voice sounded more wobbly than he’d hoped. “What are you— oh fuck, get off of me, you idiot!”

Stan yanked Richie into a hug, his arms tight around Richie’s neck, and when the hell had Stan gotten so strong? “I’m so sorry, Rich,” Stan said. Fuck, now  _ his _ voice was wobbly. Richie didn’t know what the fuck to do. He twisted in Stan’s grip, shoving ineffectually at the other boy’s ribs, but Stan wasn’t letting go.

“It  _ is _ my fault,” he insisted, prying at Stan’s wrists with his unburnt hand. “You shouldn’t— I’ve been treating you guys like dogshit, you should be  _ pissed _ at me.”

“I’m not,” Stan said. “I’m not mad at you. Not for that.” He hooked his chin over Richie’s shoulder, and Richie could feel Stan’s heartbeat like a drumbeat against his skin. “It wasn’t your fault, Rich. You couldn’t help it. I couldn’t blame you for this, you idiot, I blame whoever the fuck ordered you to do it. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I  _ did _ ,” Richie said again, and was horrified to hear the thickness of tears coloring his words. “I’m— I’m a fucking monster. I tried to fight it and I couldn’t. What the fuck does that say about me? I don’t want to hurt the people I care about, Stanny. I don’t want to hurt anyone. You shouldn’t have shown up. You should’ve let me just fall asleep.”

Stan pulled back from the hug. Richie felt a moment of fear that Stan was going to get up, to leave in disgust at Richie’s weakness, but then Stan gripped his shoulders. “I will  _ never _ regret what I did,” he said firmly. “I would do a lot worse than magical detox to keep you alive, Rich. And you are not a fucking monster. You’re my best friend, and you are the strongest goddamn kid on the planet. Got it?”

Richie bit his lip, fighting to keep back the wetness clinging to his eyelashes.

“Got it?” Stan said, giving his shoulders a hard shake.

“Got it,” Richie whispered.

They were quiet for several moments, until Beverly knocked on the door that separated the kitchen from the living room and stuck her head inside. Richie and Stan jumped apart, and Richie cleared his throat. “Ms. Gray?” he said, aiming for his quavering Granny Grunt voice. He missed the mark by several miles. “What is it, dearie?”

“I gave Bill your message” Beverly told Stan. She politely ignored the fact that Richie and Stan were both sporting wet eyes and red cheeks. “He’s going to swing by Eddie’s and then they’ll head over. He said it’d take maybe twenty minutes, depending on whether Eddie has to sneak out a window or not.”

Stan gave her a wan smile. “Thanks, Bev. For everything. Do you mind giving us just one more moment to talk?”

“I should probably head out, actually,” Beverly said. “I’m fucking starving, and my Dad’s going to notice if I’m out for much longer.” She left the doorway to snag her half-empty cigarette pack from the table. “Are you boys going to be alright here on your own?” She glanced at the damp spots on Stan’s shirt where he’d wiped at his face.

“Yeah,” Stan said. He stood up and hugged her. “Thanks,” he said, nearly a whisper, and Richie looked away. He felt as though he was intruding on something that he shouldn’t. 

Beverly froze as Stan’s arms came up around her. After a second’s hesitation, she returned the hug. “Don’t mention it,” she said, smiling. “Seriously, don’t mention it. I mean it.”

“Yes Ma’am. You can’t turn people into frogs or anything like that if we slip up, can you?” Richie asked her, only half-joking.

“Richie!” Stan squeaked.

“You never know until you try,” Beverly said. She caught Richie’s gaze. He looked back at her, and both of them held solemn expressions for perhaps five seconds before dissolving into giggles.

“Ribbet,” Richie said, as Stan threw up his hands.

“I hate you both,” he grumbled. He stepped back from Bev, but stopped her before she could leave the kitchen. “You know, we eat lunch at the back of the cafeteria,” he said. “I know you, uh, don’t usually eat in the cafeteria ‘cause of Greta or whatever, but if you ever want to join us, you can. No pressure.” He scratched the back of his head, embarrassed.

Bev blinked. “I— oh. Okay.” She smiled again, and this time the smile seemed more genuine than those she had given before. It lit up her entire face, and a flush crawled up Stan’s neck all the way to his ears. “Maybe I’ll see you guys on Monday then,” she said.

“See you, Ms. Gray!” Richie called after her, as she vanished into the living room. The sound of the front door closing followed soon after and Richie got up to rinse out his empty coffee mug, glancing over at Stan as he went. “So, you got a thing for redheads now?” he asked innocently.

Stan, who had just taken a sip of coffee, nearly spit it out all over the kitchen table. “What?” he demanded.

Richie grinned. “I’m just saying, you guys seemed to be pretty close.”

Stan scowled at him. “Yeah, ‘cause we had to perform emergency fucking detox,” he said, bristling. “It’s not like— like that! Jesus! If you think that watching you throw up into a bowl is in any way romantic, then I feel so goddamn sorry for Eddie.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Richie said.

“You— Jesus, nothing,” Stan said. He took a sip of his coffee, but Richie could have sworn that Stan muttered something that sounded like  _ oblivious idiots _ into his drink. “Anyway, no, I do not have a crush on Beverly, thank you for asking. Can we please get back to important topics?”

“Don’t belittle your love-life like that, Stanley!” Richie said, sitting back down at the table. “Anyway, don’t you think we’ve done enough talking? I think we’ve just about beat the important topics to death.”

“_We_ have, maybe,” Stan said. “But Bill and Eddie haven’t.”

Richie slumped in his seat. “Right,” he said. He scratched at a whorled knot in the wood grain of the table, then straightened and squared his shoulders. “Did you tell them?” he asked. “About me?”

“No,” Stan said. “No, I didn’t tell them about the curse, if that’s what you’re asking.” He laughed a little. “Like I said, Bill was confused yesterday. He kept asking questions, but I snapped at him pretty badly. I think I scared him.”

Richie smiled. “You can be a scary guy when you want to be.”

Once more, Stan rubbed the back of his head, his blush returning. “Maybe. I was still angry with Bill for yelling at you.”

“Well, thanks. For not saying anything.”

Stan opened his mouth, but closed it without saying a word. His expression was pinched.

Richie squinted at him, and Bev’s message finally sank in. “Hold on, you invited him and Eddie over?”

Stan spun his mug between his fingers, and didn’t say anything.

“You want me to tell them,” Richie guessed.

Stan fidgeted, picking at his fingernails. “You know how I feel about it,” he said at last. “They’re not going to hate you, Rich. They’re unhappy right now, after the way you’ve been acting this week. But even after everything yesterday, they’re coming over to see you. They didn’t need an explanation.”

Richie looked down at his hands. “I… I know,” he said. Then, softly, he added, “I’m scared to, Stan. If they know, everything’ll change.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Stan said. “I didn’t—”

“You did, Stan,” Richie said, not unkindly. He kept his words low, but his eyes darted up to see Stan’s startled expression. “I know what you’re gonna say: you didn’t treat me any different once you found out. But you did.” Richie looked back at his hands as Stan opened his mouth to protest. “Not like what you’re thinking!” he hastened to add. “You never took advantage of me or made fun of me, don’t get me wrong. You’re the best guy I know, Stan. But after you found out, you started acting like I was— I don’t know, in need of rescuing all the time. Like I needed a bodyguard just to walk to the Barrens.”

Stan crossed his arms and looked pointedly at Richie’s bruised jaw.

Richie flushed. “Okay, maybe right now is not the best time for me to bring this up. But still.” He met Stan’s gaze and held it. “Sometimes I need a friend more than a mother hen, you know?”

“I’m not going to apologize for worrying about you,” Stan said. “Especially after everything that’s been happening. Anyway, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you have a talent for getting under people’s skin.”

Richie touched one of the burns on the inside of his wrist. “Yeah, I’ve picked up on that,” he said wryly.

“So someone’s gotta look out for you.” Stan shook his head. “But I’m sorry that I ever made you feel that way. I don’t think you need rescuing all the time, I promise.”

Richie smiled. “Well, I  _ would _ make a gorgeous damsel in distress.”

“I swear to God, if you ruin my apology I’ll punch you in the balls,” Stan said, glaring.

“You’re my white knight!” Richie said, in a sing-song voice. He flicked an imaginary sheet of hair over his shoulder. “Please, Lord Stanley, take me away on your horse while we ride off into the sunset— ow! Sheesh, alright! Quit it!”

Stan retreated back across the table. He recrossed his arms over his chest while Richie rubbed his shoulder.

“Rude,” Richie said.

Stan kicked him gently under the table. “I really am sorry,” he said again.

“Well… Thanks,” Richie said. He wasn’t used to such sincere conversation. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. It wasn’t like Maggie ever sat down to serious chats with him.

“Bill and Eddie’ll be here soon,” Stan said.

“Yeah.”

“Have you decided what you want to say?”

Richie covered his face with his hands. “Yeah,” he said. “But you’re going to have to help me say part of it.”

** **

~

** **

Despite his words, when the doorbell rang Richie nearly lost his nerves.

“Wait,” he hissed, as Stan stood from the couch and headed towards the door. “Stan, maybe we shouldn’t, is now really the time? Eddie was just in the hospital, for fuck’s sake. I can’t—” 

Stan — who seemed to have gone temporarily deaf — walked straight past Richie and opened the door. “Hey, guys,” he said.

Richie stole a glance over Stan’s shoulder. Bill and Eddie were standing on his front porch. Bill was frowning, his hand raised to where one of the paneled windows in the door was missing, the edges lined with broken glass. He opened his mouth, a question on his lips, but Richie’s eyes were already sliding down to stare at Eddie.

Whatever Richie had been expecting, blood or stitches or a fucking face cast, anything — it wasn’t there. Eddie certainly didn’t look like his normal self, but he didn’t look like he’d been beaten six ways from Sunday either. His left cheek was purple, and the area around his left eye had swollen so badly that he surely couldn’t see through it. There was a white strip of bandage across his nose. But the right side of his face was as smooth and pixie-like as ever, and his right eye was clear and steady. He held a white paper bag in one hand, as though he’d stopped by the pharmacy on the way over.

Richie couldn’t help it; he gripped the back of Stan’s shirt as relief crashed into him. Eddie was alright. Eddie was okay.

“H-hey, Stan,” Bill said. “R-r-richie.”

Nobody had told Richie to keep quiet, but they might as well have. Richie tried to squeeze a noise out of his mouth and failed. He settled for ducking his head in an approximation of a hello, and forced himself to let go of the back of Stan’s shirt.

“Hey,” Stan said again. His voice was deliberately casual. “C’mon in.” He stood back to allow Bill and Eddie into the sitting room, and Richie had to jump backwards so that Stan didn’t trip right over him.

Eddie and Bill sat down on the long couch facing the kitchen and Eddie set his paper bag at his feet. Stan sat in the big armchair across from them but Richie couldn’t stay still. He remained standing, hovering by the fireplace and sneaking glances at Bill and Eddie out of the corners of his eyes. They didn’t look angry, which was something, but there was a queer sort of tension in the air. Bill’s posture was too upright, too formal, and it looked wrong after years of him and Richie sprawling across that same couch to talk baseball scores, or to complain about algebra homework. Richie didn’t have the first clue as to how to get Bill to lose that stiffness in his spine.

Stan was looking at Richie as though waiting for him to say something, but Richie’s thoughts were a jumbled mess. He stared back at Stan, wordlessly begging him to take charge. Stan’s eyebrows drew down. He shook his head, but Richie shook his head too, meeting Stan’s gaze with cow-like, imploring eyes. At last, Stan gave a huff and turned to Eddie and Bill, who were watching this silent exchange with a mixture of bafflement and impatience — bafflement on Eddie’s part, but largely impatience on Bill’s.

“So,” Stan began, haltingly. “Uh, thanks for coming, you two. I know this situation is all sorts of fucked up, but Richie has something he wants to get off his chest.”

Bill’s composure cracked, just a little, and Richie saw the anger simmering just under the surface. “Oh, r-really?” he asked, and Richie couldn’t help but flinch at his acidic tone. He turned towards the fireplace to hide his reaction. “I d-d-don’t s-sup-pose this w-would have anyth-thing to d-do with Eddie’s h-h-h-hospital visit y-yesterday, would it?” Bill said.

“Bill,” Eddie said, giving Bill’s leg a small kick. “You said you’d be calm about this.” His voice came out stuffy through his bandaged nose, and Richie winced again.

“No,” Richie said, speaking up for the first time. “You have a right to be angry.” He stole a glance at Bill, then quickly returned his attention to the stone mantle. “I haven’t been being honest with you guys. I thought I could keep it under wraps, but now Eddie— I hurt Eddie and—”

He broke off, clenching his jaw and blinking as he felt his eyes growing wet. Goddamn it, when did he get so fucking  _ emotional? _

Eddie reached up to touch the bruise on his cheekbone. His expression was unreadable. “Alright,” he said. “Is this when you finally tell us why you’ve been acting crazy all week?”

Richie swallowed and nodded. He didn’t look at Stan, not yet. He wanted to do as much of this as he could, curse be damned. “Yeah,” he said. “And it might explain some other shit about me too.”

Bill raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t uncrossed his arms. “O-okay,” he said. “We’re l-listening.” His tone indicated that he wasn’t convinced, and Richie felt his palms start to sweat. Bill was only here because Stan and Eddie had asked him here, that much was obvious. What if he didn’t believe Richie? Or worse, what if, after Richie laid out the whole truth, Bill just didn’t care? It had still been Richie who’d hit Eddie. Nothing Richie told them would change that.

The low-lying terror that Richie had been holding back flared inside him. He  _ couldn’t _ lose Bill. He didn’t know what he would do, if Bill hated him at the end of it all.

There had been a day, several years before, when Richie had almost let it slip to Bill just how fucked up he was. Eddie had dragged them both to the pharmacy with him while he picked up refills for his prescriptions, but both Richie and Bill had chosen to linger outside rather than accompany him inside.

“No way, dude,” Richie had said, wrinkling his nose when Eddie held the door open for him. “I’m waiting right out here.”

“What? Why?” Eddie had demanded.

“‘Cause Greta’s in there! Remember? Last week? When I knocked into her in the cafeteria and dumped my spaghetti all over her shirt? She fuckin’ hates me now!” Richie crossed his arms and shook his head. “I’m staying out here.”

“What, so you’re never going to go into the pharmacy again?” Eddie had asked, incredulous.

“No! Just until Greta forgets that she hates my guts.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Whatever. C’mon, Bill.”

Bill had shuffled his feet. “Uh, I th-think I’ll w-w-wait t-too,” he’d mumbled, and Eddie practically threw his hands up in the air.

“Jesus! Don’t tell me you’re scared of Greta too?”

“I, uh, I was st-standing n-n-n-next to Richie, s-so—”

“Unbelievable,” Eddie had said. “You’re both a pair of wimps. Stay out here then, Jesus, I’ll be a minute.” He’d yanked the door to the pharmacy open, the bell tinkling, and marched inside.

“That’s _ Mr. Christ _ to you, young man!” Richie had yelled after him.

He’d perched with Bill on the bench just outside the door. The air was cold and blustery, one of the first days that truly felt like fall. The leaves in the park across the street were just beginning to change, and Richie could see flashes of red and gold as the wind blew through their branches. Cars rumbled by on Center Street, the sun sparking off their windshields as they passed.

The wind tugged at Bill’s unruly hair. He had pushed it impatiently out of his eyes. “W-we’re not w-w-wimps,” he’d said, scowling.

“Yeah,” Richie said. “Eds has just never been on Greta’s bad side. He doesn’t know what that bitch is capable of.”

“Y-yeah,” Bill said, warming to the topic. “R-remember that t-t-time she t-told Lillyanne’s p-p-parents that L-Lillyanne w-was h-h-huffing glue in the ch-chemistry supply cl-closet?”

“Yeah!” Richie said, then paused. “Lillyanne wasn’t actually doing that, right?”

“No,” Bill had snorted, wrestling the wind for control of his bangs. “Of c-c-course n-not. Greta was j-just pissed bec-cause Lillyanne wouldn’t l-let her c-c-copy off her ch-chem homework.” He lost the battle, and his bangs flew back from his forehead as the wind snatched at them.

“Oh, right,” Richie said. “I forgot that part. And remember that time that Greta convinced Victor Criss to shove Bennie Holston in the dumpster after Bennie wouldn’t kiss her at the Sadie Hawkins dance?”

Bill shuddered. “I think I’d r-rather g-g-get shoved in a dump-p-pster than kiss G-Greta,” he said.

Richie had laughed. “Same here, Denbrough.” He’d puffed out his skinny chest. “So really, we’re taking the wisest course of action here by staying outside. We’re no wimps.”

As Bill nodded, grinning, a fresh gust of wind had blasted down Center Street. On the sidewalks, several of the passing pedestrians grabbed for their hats before the wind could rip them away. The gust reached the two boys on the bench, tearing at their hair and clothes. Richie’s old hawaiian shirt, already unbuttoned at the collar, slipped open a little farther as the wind yanked the next two buttons free from their buttonholes, which were soft and loose from age.

“Jeez!” Richie had said, his voice falling into a Humphrey Bogart-esque drawl. “Hold on to your boots, Billy-my-boy, or we’re bound to get swept away!” He chuckled, adjusting his glasses from where the wind had threatened to send them sliding off his face, but Bill wasn’t chuckling with him. When Richie looked over at him, Bill was frowning down at Richie’s chest. 

“What’s that?” Bill had asked. He pointed, and Richie had realized with a jolt that the top of his shirt had been folded back by the wind. Two crooked lines of his scar were visible, peeking past the fabric.

On reflex, Richie’s hands had jumped to his shirt. “Nothing!” he said, re-doing the buttons. “Just a birthmark, Big Bill.”

But Bill was still frowning. “Really?” he’d asked, sounding dubious. “I’ve n-never seen a b-b-birthmark that l-l-looked l-like that.” He reached for Richie’s shirt, almost unconsciously, and for a moment Richie was tempted to just… let him do it. Bill’s eyes were dark and concerned, but Richie could see the lines around their corners where, just seconds ago, he had been laughing along with Richie. Surely nothing would change, if Bill knew the truth. Surely a little mark on Richie’s chest wouldn’t be enough to wipe out the years of friendship that had built up between them. 

Then Maggie’s sweet voice had filled Richie’s mind

_ (“You know how most people feel about magic. Your friends would think you’re a freak.”) _

and he’d slapped Bill’s hand away just as Bill’s fingers grazed the collar of his shirt.

“Why, Mistuh William!” he’d exclaimed, putting on his best Southern Belle voice. “How improper, for a fine young gentleman to make advances on a lady of status such as myself! I demand a proper courtship before I give a ruffian like you access to my feminine treasures!”

Bill had choked and his cheeks had gone bright red, the curiosity in his eyes leaving as fast as it had come. “Beep b-beep, T-T-Tozier,” he’d said. “N-no one — and I m-m-mean n-no one — w-wants to hear ab-bout your f-f-feminine t-treasures.” 

A few moments later, Eddie had reappeared with his medicines in a paper bag under his arm, and they’d biked back to Eddie’s house to read comics and listen to the baseball game on Eddie’s tiny windowsill radio. The question of Richie’s birthmark had never come up again.

Now, looking at Bill’s stony face, Richie wished the question could have stayed buried for a few more years. Or forever.

But he was here, and he’d already promised Stan that he wouldn’t lie any longer.

Richie took a deep breath, trying to think of where to start. “Okay,” he said. “So— well, I guess you guys know I don’t have the greatest relationship with my parents.”

Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Uh, yeah,” he said, shooting a glance at Stan and Bill. “We picked up on that.”

“Kind of hard to miss,” Stan mumbled, and Richie glared at him.

“Not helping, Stan.”

Stan grimaced. “Sorry.” He waved his hand in a gesture for Richie to continue, and Richie turned back to Eddie and Bill.

“Right. Okay. So, yeah, my folks and I don’t get on great. And, um, well I’m sure you guys have noticed that I’m not like, the politest kid in the world, or anything, and I can be a lot to handle—”

“Rich,” Stan said, at the same time Bill said, “I don’t s-see what this h-h-has to d-do with anything.”

But Richie talked right over them. He knew he was rambling, but if he stopped talking now, he didn’t think he’d be able to start again. His lungs were growing smaller and smaller. A light buzz began under his skin the longer he spoke. It wasn’t painful yet, but Richie had a feeling that the curse would change that very soon. He bulled onwards. “So, I guess when I showed up, my folks — and my mom especially — weren’t really expecting it to be so much like, work. My dad didn’t care too much, I don’t think, but my mom wanted a girl, probably, or something. But then I came along, and I think they were a bit disappointed, which, I mean, have you met me? I’m sure I was the most high-fucking-maintanence kid, and it would’ve been a lot for anyone to adjust to—”

The curse pricked at his fingertips.

“And my Aunt Jaqueline, you guys probably don’t know about her ‘cause nobody really does, she doesn’t talk to my family anymore and my folks never bring her up. She lives out in Nebraska, which isn’t all that important, so I'm not sure why I mentioned that. Anyway, she had the Gift, and my Mom and Dad thought—”

The curse surged, wrapping around his throat and sending a bright, warning flash of heat down his spine. Richie broke off with a gasp. His fingernails dug into his palms, and he had to close his eyes until the tingling of the curse faded away. When he opened them again, he realized that Bill and Eddie were both staring at him, slack-jawed, as though a third arm had popped out of Richie’s stomach.

“Okay, I don’t know what they were thinking,” Richie said, spitting the words out like machine-gun fire. He could feel the curse trying to stiffen his jaw, but he kept going. A deep stabbing sensation had hooked itself into the meat behind his spine. “It doesn’t seem like the path of least resistance, you know? You’d think a lot of other options would’ve been easier, but they weren’t interested in those, I guess. I don’t know. Anyway, I have—”

A ripping pain tore through his chest. Richie’s words cut off as though someone had hit the mute button on the television. His hand jumped to his scar, and he blinked as fuzziness swept over his vision.

“Rich,” Stan said again, gently, and Richie became aware of the rapid thudding of his heart inside his chest. Of the way his breaths were too shallow, too fast. Of the lightness in his head and the faint sweat that had sprung up along his hairline. “It’s alright,” Stan said.

Richie looked at him, searching for some solidity to hold onto, some measure of sanity that he could grip, like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver. He found it in Stan’s steady gaze. “I think I need you for the rest,” he said, in hardly more than a whisper. “I don’t think I can say more.”

“What does that mean?” Eddie demanded.

Instead of answering, Stan stood from his armchair and took Richie’s hand. Richie allowed Stan to lead him over to the couch, surprised in a distant way that his legs were still able to carry him.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” Stan said, stopping in front of Bill and Eddie. “So I’m just going to rip the bandaid off.” He reached for the collar of Richie’s shirt, and this time Richie didn’t stop him. Stan pulled the fabric down until Richie’s ugly scar became visible. “What Rich has been trying to say is that his parents are total shit, and slapped an obedience curse on him when he was a baby.”

There was silence for a long moment.

Richie kept his eyes on the floor, his fists clenched at his sides. He couldn’t look up. Whatever expressions Bill and Eddie were wearing, he didn’t want to know.

The clock over the mantlepiece ticked loudly as it struck the hour.

“Wh-what?” Bill said at last. Eddie didn’t speak at all. He stared, dumbfounded, at Richie’s chest, even after Stan released his hold on Richie’s shirt.

“Yeah,” Stan said. “I know it’s a lot to take in—”

“A l-lot to t-t-t-take in?” Bill echoed, and Richie flinched. He couldn’t place all the emotions that were clouding Bill’s voice, but he could hear anger in there at least. Anger and confusion.

“Yes,” Stan said patiently. “But any questions you have—”

“A-Any  _ questions I h-have? _ ” Bill repeated. He stood from the couch, too agitated to stay sitting, and jabbed a finger in Richie’s direction. “Oh th-that’s r-r-real f-fucking nice. Y-you’re t-t-t-telling us that f-for a-a-all these y-years,” — he swept his arm in a wide arc, as though encompassing the time between their first meeting and the present — “f-for all th-those years, y-y-you’ve b-been  _ cursed? _ ”

Richie nodded.

“T-To be ob-bedient?”

Richie nodded again. His words seemed to have fled to another part of the house.

Bill’s eyes narrowed. “B-bull sh-sh-shit,” he said. “You n-n-never d-do what anyone s-says. And wh-when you d-d-do, y-you whine ab-bout it f-f-for hours.”

“It’s true, Bill,” Stan said. “What, you think he has that brand on his chest for fun? Think about it.”

“And what, y-you’re the expert?” Bill snapped, turning on Stan. Then a realization dawned on him. “Y-you knew,” he said. It sounded like an accusation. “You  _ knew? _ H-how long h-have you kn-known f-f-for?”

“Bill, I don’t—”

“ _ How long? _ ”

“Three years,” Stan said, and Richie couldn’t believe how calm he sounded. “I found out three years ago.”

Bill mouthed the words ‘three years.’ Then he looked at Richie, and his eyes were blazing. “S-so when w-w-were you g-gonna tell the r-rest of us, huh, R-Rich? It’s o-only n-now that Eddie’s g-g-got his f-face b-b-b-busted that y-you thought you should b-bring it up? I th-thought we were b-b-best fucking f-friends, b-but what, y-you d-d-didn’t t-trust us? Y-you didn’t t-t-trust m-me? W-were you ever g-g-gonna t-t-tell m-m-m-m—” Bill’s stutter worsened until he could barely continue.

“It wasn’t like that!” Richie shouted, finding his voice at last. “Bill, it  _ wasn’t _ —”

“He  _ couldn’t _ tell you,” Stan was saying simultaneously. “I had to figure it out on my own! Bill, his parents wouldn’t let him!”

But Bill wasn’t listening. He shook off Eddie’s hand where Eddie had tried to grab onto his arm and stormed towards the door.

“What the fuck, Bill!” Stan shouted at him.

Bill shook his head. His eyes were red. “I n-need a minute,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

Richie stared after him, a curious pain in his stomach. Stan said something to him, but Richie heard it as though Stan had a pillow pressed over his mouth. It didn’t make sense.

Bill had left.

A noise tried to work its way out of Richie’s throat but he clamped down on it brutally. It was only when he raised his hand to his face to push his glasses up his nose that he realized he was crying. He wiped the tears away quickly with the heel of his hand, hoping that no one had seen. Stan was looking at the door with an expression of disbelief.

Eddie, who hadn’t uttered a sound since Stan had bared Richie’s chest, was still sitting motionless on the couch. His eyes were huge and dark against his bruised cheeks.

“Eds?” Richie asked. He had to squeeze the words out through the rock that had settled in his throat. “Eds, I’m so, so sorry—”

Eddie stood up without speaking. His face was white. He started walking, and for a horrible moment, Richie thought would would also disappear out the door and away from the entire fucked-up situation. Richie wouldn’t have blamed him.

Instead, Eddie rounded the coffee table and slammed into Richie, burying himself against Richie’s chest. His skinny arms came up around Richie, squeezing, and for a moment Richie drew a complete, shocked blank. His own arms lay limp at his sides. Then Eddie’s warmth seeped through the front of his shirt, and Richie couldn’t hold back a sob as he wrapped his arms around Eddie to return the hug.

“Jesus Christ, Rich,” Eddie said into his shirt, his voice thick. “What the actual fuck is going on?”

Richie couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “Good fucking question,” he choked out. He gripped the back of Eddie’s shirt, his arms nearly spanning the entirety of Eddie’s skinny frame. Eddie was so small, so fucking delicate. Richie closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in that moment, in the feeling of Eddie, safe and whole, in his arms. He grabbed hold of that, and used it to shove away the memory of Eddie on his back in the school hallway. Richie imagined that there was a scalpel in his mind, cutting away the dead memories of Eddie’s blood on his knuckles; filling the empty space with the pressure of Eddie’s bony arms wrapped around Richie’s ribs, the top of his head resting under Richie’s chin.

After a few moments, Richie heard Stan clear his throat politely. 

Eddie pulled away from Richie to glare. “Fuck off, Stan,” he said. “We were having a moment.”

Stan burst into a fit of giggles, and Richie surprised himself by joining in. Just yesterday, Richie hadn’t thought himself capable of laughter. He looked at Stan and Eddie, still standing in his living room despite all the worry and pain he’d caused them, and felt his heart swell with admiration for them both. God, but he loved them.

He tried very hard to ignore the empty spot on the couch where Bill had been sitting.

Maybe the other boys felt the weight of Bill’s absence too, because their fit of giggles did not last long. Eddie sobered up first, wincing and patting at the strips of tape across his nose. 

Richie bit his lip as he watched. “How are you?” he asked. “How are you, really? Stan said that, um, your cheekbone…”

“Yeah.” Eddie brushed his fingers lightly over his swollen cheek. “It looks worse than it is, I think. Not that you can tell my mom that. She sort of hates you now, by the way.”

Richie grimaced. “What’d you tell her?”

“Just that we’d had a fight. I told her you’d been having a hard time lately.” Eddie eyed Richie’s chest, paused as though he wanted to add something, then continued, “I don’t think that bought you any points though, and I’ll probably be on lockdown for awhile since she shit an absolute brick when she picked me up from school. I have no idea how Bill talked her into letting me out this morning.”

“Me neither,” Stan admitted. “Thank God he did though. Did you guys manage to swing by the drug store?”

Eddie leaned over and dug through the paper bag at his feet. “Yeah. Are you sick? I got your Gatorade, and I got you some aspirin too just in case.” He tossed the bottle of Gatorade and a small tin over to Stan, who handed them to Richie.

“These are for you,” he said. “They’ll make you feel better. I know you have a headache, you keep squinting.”

Any remaining traces of laughter dropped from Richie’s face. He took the Gatorade and the aspirin and sat down on the couch, pulling his legs up so that he could rest his arms on his knees. With the adrenaline of his confession, he had forgotten the exhaustion pulling at him, the deep ache left in his muscles from Bev’s magical detox. His burned hand throbbed, but he unscrewed the top of the Gatorade and took a sip anyway.

“What?” Eddie asked. He looked between Richie and Stan, who had grown similarly grim.

“I guess we haven’t filled you in yet,” Stan said.

“Filled me in on  _ what _ ?” Eddie said.

Stan hesitated, turning to Richie as though waiting for a cue, silently asking Richie how much he wanted to divulge.

The problem was, Richie didn’t want to divulge any of it. His cheeks were hot, and he tugged one of Maggie’s throw pillows into his lap so that he could fidget with the tassels. It had been bad enough that Stan had found him passed out in his bed yesterday; bad enough that Beverly probably thought he was a headcase. He didn’t want Eddie to know too. He didn’t want to know how Eddie would look at him differently, if he’d look at him with pity.

But, of course, that was the same thinking which had led Richie to stuff his secrets in a lockbox and bury it deep. He didn’t want to keep shutting his friends out, either.

He gave Stan a small nod, and kept his head down while Stan retold the story of how he and Beverly Marsh had stopped Richie from overdosing on his mother’s prescription pills. He left out the fact that Beverly had the Gift. In his edited version, he and Bev had arrived in time to get Richie to the bathroom where he could throw up the medicine into the toilet.

When he finished, two spots of color were riding on Eddie’s cheekbones beneath the bruises. He glared at the floor, seemingly digesting everything Stan had said. “Richie—” he began.

“Before you say anything, don’t you think the ‘lets-shout-at-Richie’ train has left the station enough today?” Richie said hurriedly. “Stan already chewed me out about it, if you’re wondering.”

Eddie raised his eyebrows at Stan, who shrugged and nodded.

“I gave Rich the usual,” he said. “Told him we were worried, threatened his life if he ever tried something like that again. The classics.”

Eddie returned his scowl to Richie. “If you hadn’t clearly had a terrible week — not to mention all this curse horseshit — I’d kick your ass. You know that, right?”

Richie allowed himself a small smile. “I never doubted it.”

Eddie crossed his arms and slumped back on the couch. “Fine, then,” he said. “Just never do it again.”

An unpleasant tingle ran the length of Richie’s body as Eddie’s words hit him. He twitched, biting his lower lip to hide his reaction, but Stan’s sharp eyes caught the motion.

Stan frowned at Eddie. “You’ve gotta watch what you say, man.”

“What?” Eddie said.

“You’ve gotta watch how you phrase things,” Stan repeated. “You gave Richie an order, just now.”

A line appeared between Eddie’s eyebrows. Richie could practically see him rewinding the conversation in his head. “‘Never do it again?’” he asked. “But — I mean, yeah I don’t want you to try to fucking kill yourself, Rich — but that doesn’t count. I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know,” Stan broke in. “But it doesn’t matter. That’s just how it works. Intent doesn’t matter, the phrasing does.”

Eddie had gone pale again. “No. That— no. That means… Rich? How many times have I accidentally told you to do stuff? Anything?” His voice was small.

Richie forced an uneasy smile. “Don’t worry about it, Eds.” And then, because Eddie was still so pale, he added lamely, “not that many.”

Eddie pressed the tips of his fingers into the corners of his eyes. “Jesus,” he said. “I— fuck. I’m so sorry, Rich.”

“It’s okay,” Richie replied, and meant it.

** **

~

** **

“There’s one thing left that I wanted to ask,” Stan said.

They’d moved from the living room back into the kitchen, where Richie had gone about making a fresh batch of coffee for the three of them. His head was still aching from Beverly’s magic, and he’d popped a couple of the aspirin Eddie had brought, but he hoped some more caffeine might help settle it for good.

“What’s that?” he asked, pulling milk out of the fridge. Eddie, who liked his coffee black, slurped loudly at his mug.

Stan tapped on the tabletop, the corners of his mouth turned down as though he was deciding how to proceed. In true Stan fashion, the question came out blunt: “What went wrong this week?”

Richie paused with the carton of milk in one hand. “What do you mean?” he asked cautiously.

“I mean, who told you to hurt Eddie? Why were you acting so crazy this week? And I won’t believe you if you say that you were sick. Someone’s obviously been messing with you. Was it Bowers? The shit he was saying on Friday made it sound like…”

_ (Hockstetter’s hands were in his hair, and Richie couldn’t stop  _ ** _choking_ ** _ ) _

“Richie? You alright?”

Richie snapped back to attention. Both Eddie and Stan were watching him over their mugs, and Richie set down the milk a little harder than necessary. It made a hollow  _ thunk _ against the kitchen table. “I’m fine,” Richie said automatically.

Eddie frowned at him. “Bullshit. Even if you hadn’t downed a bottle of pills yesterday, we’d know you’re lying. You’ve got a terrible poker face.”

“I do not!”

“You really do,” Stan said. He toyed with the top of the milk carton with one hand. “Can you tell us? Or did someone order you not to?”

Richie sighed and dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. “No,” he said. “Or, I guess, kinda.”

“Did that make sense to you?” Eddie asked Stan.

“Not a bit.”

“Okay, jeez,” Richie said. He stole the milk from Stan and poured a generous splash into his coffee. “Bowers was one, okay? He’s the one who told me to go after Eddie.”

“That fucking—” Eddie shot halfway to his feet, already furious. “I should have known that asshole would get his ratty little nose into this somehow. He told you to come attack me?”

“I think his actual words were ‘put him in the hospital,’” Richie admitted. Under the table, the fingers of his uninjured hand played with the loose, burned skin on the other.

“Henry fucking Bowers,” Eddie raged. “If there was ever a waste of space, shit-smear on the —”

“Eddie, shut up a minute,” Stan said impatiently. His attention was laser-focused on Richie. “You said Bowers ordered you to do it? Does that mean Bowers  _ knows _ ?”

Richie nodded.

Stunned, Eddie fell back into his seat. “No way,” he said. “Bowers? You’ve gotta be—”

Stan spoke over him. “You said Bowers was one,” he said. “That means there’s more. Someone else knows, don’t they? More than one?”

“Just one other,” Richie said lowly. “But I can’t tell you who.”

Stan pointed at Richie’s bruised face. “And they’re the ones who did that?”

“Yeah,” Richie whispered.

Stan and Eddie exchanged infuriated looks. “Well, that’s okay that you can’t tell us,” Stan said, voice clipped. “There are only a few options if the kid runs with Bowers.”

Richie, who had lifted his mug to take a sip, set it down again. “Don’t,” he told Stan.

“Don’t what?”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Richie said.

“Help your dumb ass?” Stan asked, unimpressed.

“Stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong! Don’t try to figure it out, or any of that bullshit, Stan! Just leave it alone.”

Stan’s lower lip jutted out stubbornly. “Excuse me, what?”

“Just let me deal with it!”

“You’re kidding, right?” Eddie broke in. Richie glared at him, but Eddie glared right back. “You really think we’re just gonna abandon you to handle this on your own?”

“Especially when leaving you to handle it has worked out so well up until now,” Stan said, waving first at Eddie’s swollen cheek and then upwards towards Richie’s bedroom.

Richie willed the stupid, dumbfounded expression off of his face. He fumbled to find the right words. “I don’t want you guys involved, okay?” he said. “You don’t get it. Bowers and this other person, they’ll

_ (cut you, burn you, make you lick their fucking boots while they laugh) _

fuck you up, alright? They aren’t gonna mess around!”

“We know that, dipshit,” Eddie said, and Stan nodded.

_ No, you don’t, _ Richie wanted to say.  _ You don’t understand at all. _

The phone rang before he could argue further. Richie pushed up his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose, where the frames had left a red indent in his skin. “Just— one second,” he told them instead, and shouldered his way through the kitchen door. He took a moment in the living room, rubbing a hand along his neck and enjoying the quiet as the door swung shut behind him. Then he pulled the phone out of its cradle. “Hello?” he said.

He was expecting a stuffy administrator from the school, calling to ask his parents about his unusual behavior that week. Or if not, maybe a clerk from one of the hotels that his parents liked to stay at, ready to tell him that — so sorry — but his parents had decided to extend their stay for a few more days.

He wasn’t expecting Patrick Hockstetter’s breathy voice in his ear.

“Hey there, Fuckdoll.”

Richie froze. His fingers spasmed around the phone.

“Shut up, and don’t hang up,” Hockstetter said. “Keep that phone right at your ear.”

Slowly, Richie raised the phone back to his face. A frantic, frothing energy had filled his chest, making his heart flutter like a caged hummingbird.

“Richie?” Stan called through the kitchen door. “Who is it?”

“Alright, Doll,” Hockstetter said. “Tell me the truth now, is there anyone else there with you? I know I heard someone.”

“Yes,” Richie said mechanically. “But you—”

“Shut up,” Hockstetter said, his voice lowering. “Answer my questions, and apart from that, keep your mouth shut. Who else is there?”

“Stan and Eddie.”

“Those two losers?” Hockstetter laughed. “I thought Henry had you pound in the little pipsqueak’s face yesterday. He’s still hanging around?”

“Yes.”

“Richie,” Stan called again. “Who is it?” But Richie tuned him out.

“Well, I’m coming over,” Hockstetter said. He sounded so fucking  _ cheerful _ , as though his words hadn’t turned Richie’s insides to glass. “So get rid of them. Don’t let on that I called, duh. Tell them— fuck, I don’t know. Tell them whatever stupid lie will get them to leave.”

Richie’s grip was so tight around the phone that the plastic creaked under his fingers.

“Now tell me yes so I know you understand,” Hockstetter said.

“Yes,” Richie croaked. “Got it.”

“Good boy,” Hockstetter said. Richie could hear the grin in his voice. “It’s Saturday and I’m bored, but I think we can find some ways to entertain ourselves, don’t you?”

“Please,” Richie said, a little desperately. “Don’t—”

“I’ll see you soon,” Hockstetter said, drawing out the last word into a sing-song chant. “Get rid of your friends and then wait for me at your house. Let me in when I knock. And don’t get up to any mischief, Dollface.”

The dial-tone buzzed in Richie’s ear before he could respond, but Richie almost couldn’t hear it over the roar of blood that beat in his head.

Carefully, he set the phone back in its cradle. Fine tremors were running through his hands, and the burn on his palm began to throb.  _ Breathe _ , Richie told himself. His lungs stuttered, too small inside his chest.  _ It’s okay _ , he thought.  _ Eddie and Stan will know something is wrong. Maybe they can— _ But then he stopped. That was exactly what he  _ didn’t _ want.

What could his friends do? Neither one of them were exactly imposing. Hockstetter was probably a half a foot taller than each of them. Hell, probably a full foot taller than Eddie. What the hell was he thinking, they could take some kind of heroic stand? Maybe it would be three-on-one at first, but Hockstetter could change that in a second with a word directed Richie’s way. And then Stan and Eddie would have to stand up to Hockstetter alone.

Richie imagined Hockstetter’s large, long-fingered hands throwing Stan aside. He imagined how they might twist into Eddie’s dark, curly hair, forcing Eddie to his knees— 

No. Despite their strong words, neither Stan nor Eddie knew what Hockstetter was capable of. Richie couldn’t make them fight his own battles. Richie wiped away the faint film of sweat that had sprung up along his hairline and took a deep breath, willing his hands to stop shaking. Whatever happened, he couldn’t let his friends into Hockstetter’s sights.

With that thought fixed firmly in his mind, Richie pushed open the door to the kitchen. Eddie was slumped in his seat with his feet propped up on Richie’s vacated chair, cradling his mug to his chest. Stan was sitting, upright as ever, and murmuring something to Eddie in a voice too soft to be heard. As Richie entered, both of them snapped around to face him.

“Who was that?” Stan asked.

Richie stalled in the doorway, swearing internally. Why the hell hadn’t he come up with a lie in the living room? Jesus, he was the dumbest kid in Derry. He opened his mouth, scrambling to think of something.

“It wasn’t Bill, was it?” Eddie asked, then hissed as Stan whacked him on the shoulder. “What? He’s gotta cool off sooner or later!”

“If he ever does,” Richie mumbled.

Eddie looked at him, his large, brown eyes solemn. “He will,” he said, with such confidence that Richie didn’t have the heart to contradict him.

“Well, no, it wasn’t Bill,” Richie said. “It was, uh, my parents, actually.”

Stan glanced towards the note pinned to the fridge. “Yeah? What’d they want?” he said.

“They’re coming home early,” Richie said, gaining steam. If there was one thing he was good at, it was bullshitting excuses to dodge around his curse. “I think my Mom got food poisoning at the hotel.”

“Ew,” Eddie said, making a face. “How bad?”

Richie shrugged. “I don’t know. My dad didn’t say. But they’re gonna be back in a couple of hours.” He picked up the empty mugs from the table and brought them over to the sink. “Would you guys mind heading out? I’ve gotta do some cleaning up before they get here.”

“Do you want any help?” Stan asked.

Richie shook his head. “No, you guys go ahead. I’ll call you later, alright?”

Eddie stood up and stretched. “Well, I wouldn’t call my house if I were you. If my mom hears you on the phone, she’ll probably rip the cord right out of the wall so you can’t call back.” He patted Richie on the shoulder. “Probably best to give her some time to forget about it first. But I’ll see you at school on Monday?”

“Yeah,” Richie said.  _ Depending on what shape Hockstetter leaves me in, _ he didn’t add.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Rich?” Stan said. Richie heard what he didn’t say:  _ are you sure you’re alright on your own? _

“Yeah, of course,” Richie said, and he was proud of himself when his voice came out steady. “I mean, apart from the growth on the tip of my junk, but the doc told me—”

“Beep beep!” Stan said loudly, and clapped his hands over his ears. “Jesus, you’re impossible.”

Richie grinned, and forced his burnt hand to unclench. He walked the two of them to the door. Stan slipped out first, after pulling Richie into a quick hug. “Aw Stanley, you do care!” Richie trilled, and Stan gave him a slap upside the head.

“You’re an idiot,” he told Richie. “And don’t think that you’re getting out of our earlier conversation.”

“Eh, shoo,” Richie said, flapping his hands at him. “Go light a menorah, or something.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “As if you didn’t beg my parents to let you light the candles last year.”

“As if I didn’t do it with fucking style!” Richie shouted after him, as Stan headed around the side of the house to retrieve his bike. A light touch on Richie’s arm had him turning back to the doorway.

Eddie kept his hand on Richie’s wrist, even after he’d gotten Richie’s attention. Richie felt the warm weight of it against his skin. Goosebumps rose up along his arms and the back of his neck, but he ignored them. It was cold out, that was all. “Listen,” Eddie said. He was smiling, his features somehow still cute, even underneath the bruises. Richie wondered how in the hell he could still smile like that at  _ Richie _ , after everything that had happened between them in the past twenty-four hours. “I’m so fucking sorry for the way Bill reacted,” Eddie said, his smile dimming. “I know that’s not at all what you were hoping for, but he’s gonna come around. I know he might not be acting like it right now—”

“It’s fine,” Richie said over him. “Really. I mean, I can’t expect everyone to be okay with how I’ve lied to you guys for years. Two out of three isn’t bad, right?”

“It’s not fine,” Eddie snapped, temper flaring. “Bill’s being an asshole, and he should know better.” His tone softened somewhat. “But he’s not mad with you.”

Richie snorted and shook his head. “You’re not making a whole lot of sense there, Spaghetti-man. Of course he’s fucking mad at me. I’ve been lying to him since the day we met.”

“He’s not,” Eddie insisted. “At least, I don’t think he is.” He paused, mulling it over, then said, “I think he’s mad at himself.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Aw, c’mon, you know him better than that,” Eddie said. “You’re his best friend.”

“You and Stan—” Richie tried to protest, but Eddie jutted out his chin stubbornly.

“Are his also his best friends too, duh, but not in the same way. You guys have known each other for forever. You helped babysit Georgie when you guys were like, fucking five. He trusts you, Rich.”

“Yeah, and look where that got him. With a fucking liar for a friend—”

“You’ve always stuck up for each other,” Eddie said, ignoring him. “And in all that time, he never guessed that you were dealing with this alone.”

Richie fidgeted. “Well, not  _ really _ —”

“Richie,” Eddie said sharply. “Stop talking and let me— fuck, I mean, are you gonna let me finish or what? Don’t obey that last bit.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Eddie huffed. “What I’m trying to say is— look, you know Bill. You know how much his friends mean to him, how much he hates it when Bowers or Belch or whoever picks on one of us. You didn’t see how upset he was earlier this week, when you came to school all beat up. I don’t think he’s pissed at you for not telling him. I think he’s pissed at himself for never working it out on his own. For making you feel as though you couldn’t trust him with it. And for not being able to help you with it.”

“Well that’s just dumb,” Richie said. “It’s not his fault I was too chicken-shit to tell you guys.”

“You’re both dumb,” Eddie said matter-of-factly. “But yeah, Bill’s being especially dense about it.” He smiled again and patted Richie’s arm. “Just give— I mean, I think he just needs time to work out how he’s feeling. He’ll come around.”

Richie wasn’t so sure, but he ruffled Eddie’s hair anyway in the way he knew Eddie hated. “When the hell did you get so wise?” he asked. “Must’ve been that concussion I gave you.”

“Ha fucking ha,” Eddie deadpanned, as Stan appeared from around the side of the house, wheeling a bike with each hand.

“Here,” Stan said. He passed over Eddie’s bike, and both of them swung their legs over their seats. Stan adjusted his pants before he sat down, so that the seat wouldn’t wrinkle the fabric. “Call me later?” he asked Richie, and Richie nodded. “Good,” Stan said. “My folks are making dinner tonight, if you want to swing ‘round.”

“I’ll think about it,” Richie said.

Eddie waved, and the two of them kicked off from the curb, heading down the hill and out of sight. Richie watched them go. Then, his burned hand flexing once more at his side, he went inside and shut the door. 

He waited, just as Hockstetter had ordered him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...…. remember when I said you guys had gotten through the worst of it? That remains true! Just remember that and please don't hate me too much for the cliffhanger :3
> 
> Now, I have some good news and some bad news for you guys. The good news is that I am feeling pretty confident about the next chapter, and I don't think it'll need too much editing time (unlike this one, which was a hot mess for a long time). The bad news is that my work schedule is about to get CrAzY, and I am working for the next 9 days straight, which means I won't have a lot of time to edit the damn thing anyway. So, in the interest of everyone, I am going to try to post the next chapter by next WEDNESDAY. Not Sunday. However, even with that the chapter may be a couple of days late. I'm also trying to finish writing up the rough drafts for the last couple chapters, so I'm trying to give myself time to do that without having a huge posting break while I get that done. Anyway, hopefully that all made sense and you guys are okay being patient with me for a bit longer :)
> 
> Thank you again to everyone for their support on this story! It gives me so much goddamn joy to know you guys like how its turning out. I hope everything made sense in this chapter (I've never had to explain so much through dialogue, so sheesh I'm praying that it landed), but let me know if not! As always, reviews are my lifeblood, and if you liked it or you didn't, or if you have questions or just want to chat, hit me up <3
> 
> Hugs to you all, and see you (hopefully) next Wednesday!


	8. Part 8 — 1991: The Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie touched his chin gingerly, feeling where a new bruise was rising. His face was going to have more colors than a fucking Matisse gallery by the end of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends!
> 
> So, Friday and Wednesday are basically the same day, right? Right. I thought so too! 
> 
> Sorry about the lateness of the chapter, my work was even crazier than I expected, so I didn't have all that much time for editing this week. Luckily, I got off early today so I could finally sit down and scratch out some work! I haven't gotten around to responding to reviews yet from the past week, so you will have to forgive me for that. Hopefully I will get to those tonight or tomorrow. Either way, there were some lovely comments, and holy shit I am so honored that you guys have dove into this story with me. Much love to you all <3
> 
> Guys? I'm pretty stoked for this one. It's got it all -- action, angst, friendship, an excessive use of em-dashes, you name it. We're getting into the final bits here, folks. Strap in. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Graphic violence, threatened sexual assault, so much language. Uhm, I think that is it for this one? Let me know if I missed anything.

Twenty minutes after Eddie and Stan headed off, a knock came at Richie’s back door. A rapid one-two-three that snapped the quiet more effectively than the rattle of a woodpecker drilling into soft bark. Richie, who had been sitting at the kitchen table, methodically flexing and relaxing his burned hand, looked up at the noise. A cold fog seemed to work its way underneath the first layer of his skin. For a long moment, he didn’t move. He sat, staring at the closed kitchen door, feeling the rush of air through his lungs as he breathed. The wail of the curse grew louder and louder inside his head. It rattled in his ears like the squeal of metal on metal. 

When he could take no more, Richie stood from the table on numb legs. He threw back the lock and swung the door open to find Patrick Hockstetter leaning against the railing. Hockstetter’s ankles were crossed. His T-shirt was worn and old, the red fabric splashed with a garish picture of a woman in a bikini. She was sitting astride a motorcycle, her breasts spilling out of her bikini top, and the text below this read: RIDE HOGS FOR THE FIFTY-SEVEN. What this meant, Richie couldn’t guess. 

“Hey there, Fuckdoll,” Hockstetter said. His voice was a syrupy drawl, and he was smiling, his teeth white in the late morning sun. With his long legs and gangly arms, he resembled a spider hanging in its web, all eight eyes glittering.

Richie said nothing. He darted a glance from side to side, but his empty backyard did nothing to reassure him. He thought he might throw up again. “Just you?” he asked, proud when his voice didn’t tremble. 

Hockstetter’s grin widened. A spring breeze blew across the lawn, lifting Hockstetter’s hair back from his forehead and ruffling the grass behind him in feathery waves. “Just you and me this time, Dollface,” he said. “I thought we needed some quality time.”

Richie clenched his jaw and breathed deep, willing his insides to settle. His scar was twinging, but he stood aside to let Hockstetter slink past him as he had been ordered to do.

The back door let on to Maggie’s kitchen, and Hockstetter stopped in the middle of the room. He turned in a full circle, his arms spread out as though to encompass the entire space, and let out an impressed whistle. “Damn, Trashmouth,” he said. “You actually live here? I knew your parents were loaded, but this is just gross. Are those _marble_ countertops?”

Richie didn’t respond. He closed the door and rested his back against it, folding his arms over his stomach. He could feel tiny vibrations jittering up and down his body. Adrenaline had temporarily driven the lingering ache of Bev’s magic from his joints. “What’s with the sneaking in through my backyard routine? Worried someone’s gonna see you?” he asked instead.

“As if anyone’s going to care,” Hockstetter said, which wasn’t an answer. “Where are your parents? Gone again? So sad. Pity they never seem to hang around for more than a day or two.”

“How do you know anything about my parents?” Richie snapped, but Hockstetter only rolled his eyes.

“Please, Fuckdoll. Everyone knows your parents barely live here. Think they’re gone so often ‘cause they can’t wait to get away from you?”

“Shut up,” Richie said. “You don’t know fucking anything.” He bit his bottom lip.

Hockstetter laughed. “Don’t I? C’mon, Fuckface, I did my research. It’s not every day you run into a kid that’s been _gift-wrapped_ for you. Obedience curse, absent parents, annoying personality? What are the fucking chances? Besides, even if it wasn’t obvious that your parents don’t give a shit, your reaction just said more than the rumor mill ever could.”

“You better watch what you say,” Richie said. His voice dropped, becoming somewhere in the register of Mr. T with a bad head-cold. “Spreadin’ rumors is a good way to get your face rearranged.”

“Ugh, Jesus. Stop talking like that,” Hockstetter said, annoyed. “Besides, you’re fucking lucky, I’d kill for my parents not to be up in my business all the time. They’re so goddamn nosy. My mom’s always up in my face, asking about where I’m going and who I’m going with. You’d think she’d have learned not to waste the air by now. I hate it.”

Richie stared at him, startled by how vehement Hockstetter sounded. He thought of Stan’s mother, Andrea, who always made sure that Stan called her if he was out too late. Once, when Bill, Stan, and Richie had taken a bus up to Portland, it had broken down on the way back. There hadn’t been a phone to use, and when they’d gotten back to Derry at two a.m., Stan had missed his agreed-upon check in time by four hours. Richie had walked Stan home. When Stan had disappeared into his house, Richie could hear Andrea screaming at him from half a block away.

When Richie had gotten home, the house had been empty. Maggie had called him two days later to tell him that she and Wentworth were in Georgia for the week.

“If you’re mad that your mom cares, then you’re an idiot,” he told Hockstetter without thinking.

Hockstetter didn’t seem too bothered by this. He boosted himself up onto one of the countertops, and his shoes left grimy streaks on the wooden drawers below. “Watch yourself,” he said mildly. Despite his non-threatening tone, he looked dangerous. Like a snake coiled in the grass.

“What do you want, Hockstetter?” Richie asked.

Hockstetter frowned. “I thought I told you over the phone. I’m bored.”

“So you came over to shoot the shit about our parents?”

At that, Hockstetter grinned. “Oh no,” he said. “Not at all. I didn’t get to catch up with you yesterday, Dollface. I’d started to miss you.” His gaze slid down to Richie’s lips, and a cold sweat broke out all across Richie’s skin.

He couldn’t— not again— not _ever— _

He fumbled for the door latch at his back, trying to keep his movement small so Hockstetter wouldn’t notice. “You’re that desperate for a fuck?” he asked. His voice was higher than normal, but that didn’t matter. If he could just keep Hockstetter talking while he got the door open, he could bolt into the woods behind the house. Maybe he wasn’t the fastest sprinter in the world, but he thought that the fear tautening his muscles was sure as hell going to help. Hockstetter hadn’t told him anything about running away this time around. His hand found the knob, and, so slowly, making sure the metal wouldn’t squeak, he began to turn it.

Hockstetter shrugged. “What can I say, Dollface? You’ve got such a nice mouth.” His smile was sharp.

“Bowers still not putting out?” The knob clicked, and Richie felt the faint vibration through his fingertips as the heavy bolt cleared the doorframe.

Hockstetter’s expression grew flat. “Why the fuck should that matter? That was a one-time thing.”

“Huh. Sort of sounded like you wished it was more,” Richie said. It hadn’t — Hockstetter hadn’t seemed to give a flying fuck at the time how Bowers felt — but he was buying time. He scooted away from the door, only a couple of inches, and pulled it very slightly out of its frame.

Hockstetter burst out laughing, either at the absurd idea that he had a crush on Henry or maybe at the possibility that Richie had so badly misinterpreted the situation. Richie didn’t stick around to find out which. Hockstetter’s head tipped back, his eyes squeezed shut, and in that second of distraction Richie had wrenched the door fully ajar. He hurled himself through the opening before Hockstetter could register what he was doing, and had the door slammed shut behind him in the next instant. With his heart a jackhammer in his throat, he stuffed his fingers in his ears and took off across the lawn.

There might have been a sound behind him — a roar? — but Richie only shoved his fingers deeper, sprinting as fast as his feet could carry him. His sneakers pounded the grass, and then he was in the strip of woods behind his house, skidding on the muddy spring undergrowth. His breath tore raggedly in his throat, and he had a sudden, vivid memory of sprinting laps for Coach Bleider in the fields behind the Junior High school. Except now he wasn’t running because of the orders of some crotchety old fart; he was running for his fucking life.

He risked a glance behind him and saw that his backdoor was hanging open. He scanned the yard for Hockstetter, but his foot slipped in the wet dirt and he had to stumble to keep his balance. On instinct, he almost caught himself against a nearby tree trunk, but he managed to keep both hands clapped against his ears. He ran farther into the trees. He didn’t look back again, focusing on maintaining his balance, but maybe he should have. If he had risked a peek, he might have seen Hockstetter’s loping form, the boy’s long legs eating up the distance between them, before a weight slammed into Richie’s back and sent him sprawling.

Richie landed on his chest in the dirt, and blood filled his mouth as his chin smacked into the ground. His teeth clicked together. A little _whumph_ of air escaped him. He lay, gasping, too stunned to roll over, and then large hands were grabbing his shoulders. They yanked him onto his back, and any remaining breath in his lungs was crushed out of him as Hockstetter straddled his chest.

“Get off me!” Richie shouted. His cry was thin with no air to give it strength. He squirmed, trying to throw Hockstetter off, but Hockstetter was unexpectedly heavy for such a skinny kid. Hockstetter was also panting. He pried Richie’s hands away from his ears, pinning Richie’s arms to the ground with his knees, and leaned forward so that he was pressing Richie’s shoulders into the dirt. “Get the fuck off of me!” Richie howled.

“Shut up,” Hockstetter said. His face was contorted in anger, but his words were low and soft. Richie’s voice locked up. He wriggled backwards, bucking his hips and ignoring the pain as the scrawling slices across his back dragged across the ground. He jerked to one side, then the other, before Hockstetter slapped him hard across the face. The crack of skin on skin was loud in the morning air. Richie fell still, his chest heaving. He looked up at Hockstetter through eyes that watered at the pain that bloomed across his cheek.

“Did you think that would fucking work?” Hockstetter snarled at him. Drops of spittle peppered Richie’s face and neck. “Are you that fucking dumb?”

“Your mom,” Richie attempted to say, but pain seared through him and he snapped his mouth closed. The taste of blood was strong in his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue.

Hockstetter hit him again, this time on the same cheek where Bowers had kicked him. Richie saw stars. A scream left him, but he choked it back as the curse flared. “No more running away from me,” Hockstetter said. “Ever. If you try to run again, I swear to God I’ll make you slice off your own thumbs.”

Richie shuddered underneath him.

Hockstetter smiled. “Don’t believe me?” he asked.

Richie stared up at him, blinking away tears and waiting for the throbbing in his cheeks to subside.

Hockstetter climbed off of him and hauled Richie to his feet. “Come on,” he said. He brushed off the dead leaves and dirt that clung to the back of Richie’s shirt and grinned when Richie flinched. “I’ve got a story for you, Fuckdoll. Let’s go.”

~

Back in the Tozier’s kitchen, Hockstetter shoved Richie into a chair and told him to stay. Richie watched him dig through the fridge, finally emerging with a takeout container of pasta that Maggie had brought back earlier in the week.

“Your mom can’t cook worth a damn, huh?” Hockstetter asked. When Richie remained silent, he waved an arm impatiently. “Jesus, right, talk or whatever. You’re fucking boring, just sitting there.”

Richie touched his chin gingerly, feeling where a new bruise was rising. His face was going to have more colors than a fucking Matisse gallery by the end of the day. “No,” he said. “She’s not one for cooking.”

Hockstetter banged through the kitchen drawers until he found the cutlery. “Neither is mine,” he said, pulling out a fork. “She tries, the dumb cow, but her shit’s inedible.” He speared a forkful of cold pasta and shoved it into his mouth. “This is good though,” he said, words garbled around the food. A fleck of congealed cheese clung to his full lower lip, and Richie decided right then that pasta was off the menu for him. Indefinitely.

“Glad you like it,” he ground out.

Hockstetter set down his container and snagged a kitchen chair — the same one that Eddie had occupied earlier. He dragged it around to straddle it backwards, sitting so close to Richie that their knees were almost touching. “You wanna know a secret, Tozier?” he asked.

“No,” Richie said.

“I’ve been thinking about what to do with you,” Hockstetter went on, taking another bite of pasta. His hot breath washed over Richie’s face. “After I get bored.”

Richie dug his fingers into the seat of his chair. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he said.

Hockstetter sucked on the tines of his fork, licking away the sauce. “Well, this is fun and all,” he said. “And don’t get me wrong, I have a feeling you’ll keep me entertained for a long while. But everything’s gotta come to an end sometime, you know?” He spoke in a measured, reasonable tone of voice, as though he and Richie were debating the pros and cons of their top college choices.

“You’ve gotta re-examine your definition of fun, buddy,” Richie told him. He shifted, and his knee knocked against Hockstetter’s. Richie pulled back, but Hockstetter only scooted his chair closer. Richie fought down a swell of claustrophobia. “Besides, it’s not like I can tell anyone what you’re doing.”

“Oh no, it’s not that I’m worried you’re gonna rat me out when we’re done,” Hockstetter said. He selected a single piece of pasta and nibbled at it. “You’re gonna be dead by then.”

Richie’s skin grew cold. A tinny buzzing grew in his ears, then faded away to a muffled drone. “What?” he asked.

Hockstetter raised an eyebrow. “Thought you were smarter than that, Fuckdoll. I can’t have you running around after we’re done. What if someone else figures out your little curse problem? That’s no good.” His eyes were gleaming. “You can’t expect me to pass up an opportunity like this. You think I’m going to give someone else the chance to kill you first? No. I found you, so it’s my choice what to do with you.”

“But— Patrick, you can’t be serious_,_” Richie said. His voice rose, shaking, and Richie hated the pleading note that he heard there. “I—what are you talking about? You can’t—”

“Story time,” Hockstetter announced. He scooted his chair forward until his knees were bracketing Richie’s own. Richie leaned back as far as he could, but there was nowhere to go. Hockstetter’s face was eager, lit from within. His eyes were wide, glassy, and the smile that touched his mouth was almost serene. It made Richie think of the horror-comics that they sold down at Costello’s. There was something unhinged in that smile.

“Patrick—,” he began, but Hockstetter pressed a finger to his own lips, and Richie fell silent.

“Once upon a time,” Hockstetter began, and his voice resonated in the quiet kitchen like a low bell. “There was a curious boy. This boy was a smart boy, even as a child. He knew he was more real than other people around him, because other people were always asking dumb questions and doing dumb things. But not this boy. This boy was different. He was _real. _He didn’t have to ask dumb questions, because he saw how the world worked.

One day, when the boy was walking in the Barrens, he found a bird that had fallen out of its nest. The bird had broken its wing.”

“This is the worst story I’ve ever heard,” Richie said. His heart was pounding behind his ribs. It was making him lightheaded. He had a feeling that this story did not end well for the injured bird. “Terrible character development.”

“The bird was hopping around, not doing anything to help itself,” Hockstetter continued. “And the boy knew that the bird wasn’t real, just like everyone else in the world. It didn’t matter, not like the boy. So, there he was sitting, looking at this dumb bird and trying to decide what to do with it, and then the boy remembered an old refrigerator that he’d found a few weeks ago by the town dump.”

Richie squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Stop,” he whispered.

“He took that bird to the fridge and put it inside,” Hockstetter said. There was a sick, remembered glee in his expression. “And he closed the door. But he didn’t leave. He could hear the bird inside, twittering and pecking at the door.” 

Richie wanted to take off his own sock and stuff it in Hockstetter’s mouth, just to make him shut up. 

“It took that bird two days to die,” Hockstetter said, smiling once again. “I kept coming back, listening to it scratch and chirp. And you know what? Once it was dead, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering; what would other animals sound like, if I locked them in there?”

“You’re crazy,” Richie gasped out.

“You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve trapped in there, Fuckdoll,” Hockstetter purred. Richie knew that he could see the fear on Richie’s face, that he was _enjoying _the fear, but Richie couldn’t control himself. He had never felt so horrified. “Squirrels. Rabbits. Raccoons. Whenever I can get away with it, I take one of the pets around the neighborhood and stick them inside. I think Mrs. Engstroms is still looking for her cocker puppy. That one lasted the longest— took it three whole days to starve to death.” Hockstetter laughed.

Richie fought the urge to lean out of his chair and retch. His stomach was roiling, but he had no doubt that Hockstetter would make him lick it right back up if he vomited now. “You’re fucking sick,” he spat instead. “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” He thought of the dogs he sometimes saw playing with their owners by the canal in the spring and had to swallow hard against his rising gorge. “How could you _do_ shit like that?”

Hockstetter leaned over his chair. Richie pressed backwards as his hands found Richie’s shoulders, but Hockstetter clamped down, pinning Richie to his seat. He moved forward until he was nose-to-nose with Richie, so close that Richie could see the individual hairs feathering Hockstetter’s eyebrows. “You know what animal I’ve never been able to put in that fridge?” Hockstetter asked.

Gooseflesh rose up all along Richie’s arms and across the back of his neck. He couldn’t answer.

“I think,” Hockstetter said, his voice too intimate, no louder than a murmur. “I think that when I’m done with you, I’ll stick you in that fridge and see what sort of sounds you make. What do you say, Fuckdoll? Think you can last longer than Mrs. Engstroms’ puppy?”

All the blood left Richie’s face. “Get away from me,” he whispered. “Get away from me, you’re a fucking psychopath. You’re fucking loony tunes. You— you—”

Hockstetter was laughing. He stood up from his chair, grinning. His eyes roved over Richie’s face, delighted in what he saw there. “Aw, don’t worry, Fuckdoll,” he said. “I’m not done playing with you yet. You’re just too goddamn fun when you’re all freaked out! I won’t kill you until I get bored of it.” He spun his chair around and sat back down, splaying his legs out to either side and fingering the top button of his jeans. “You better hope you stay interesting,” he said. He winked at Richie, and for the first time all day, Richie really, truly wished that Stan and Bev hadn’t known where to find him yesterday. If they hadn’t barged into his bedroom with their fucking magic detox, he wouldn’t be here, staring into Hockstetter’s glazed, predatory eyes.

“Patrick,” he said, but his voice broke and he had to stop and clear his throat. His jaw began to throb. “Don’t,” he said. “Patrick, please.”

“Come here,” Patrick said. His pupils were too large, black caverns in a sea of white.

Richie stayed where he was for a long moment, gripping his chair until his knuckles popped beneath his skin. Then the pain grew too much for him, and he stood with a shaky jerk. He stepped forward until he was between Hockstetter’s spread knees.

“Patrick,” he tried again, shuddering as Hockstetter placed his hands on Richie’s hips. “Please, _don’t_, God, just don’t.”

Hockstetter cocked his head to the side. “What, didn’t you have fun last time? I know I sure did.”

“You _asshole_,” Richie said, in a harsh, shaky rasp. “I’m not playing this game with you.”

“Oh, but you will,” Hockstetter said. His grip tightened around Richie’s hips. “What I say, goes. Remember? You’ll play any game I want you to.” He grinned, bright and eager. “And right now, the game I want you to play needs you on your knees. So get down there.”

Richie’s legs shook. After several agonizing seconds, they folded. “Patrick, _don’t_,” Richie gasped. Hockstetter unsnapped the button on his jeans, and Richie clenched his eyes shut. “_Please—_”

Out in the living room, the doorbell rang.

Richie’s eyes opened. He stared up at Hockstetter, who had gone still in his chair.

The doorbell rang again, and then someone hammered on the door.

Hockstetter’s smile dropped from his face. He re-did the button on his jeans and shoved Richie away from himself with one boot. “Go see who it is,” he snapped. “Then get rid of them. Fast. And don’t tell them anyone else is here.”

Richie scrambled to his feet, knocking over his chair in his haste. The doorbell rang again, and Richie bolted out of the kitchen, his heart thundering, his vision blurring, the taste of blood still in his mouth. He stumbled into the living room. A silhouette was visible through the paneled glass on the top half of his front door, and Richie took a moment to wipe at his face and eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his heart down and force his expression into anything that wasn’t rabid panic.

The visitor knocked again.

“Jesus Christ,” Richie muttered. His pulse was thrumming below his skin. He could feel it in his throat, pounding at the insides of his veins as though it meant to batter right through and into the open air. He took another breath and went to the door. “Not to be rude, but this isn’t the best—” he began, swinging the door open.

The words dried up in his mouth. The floor seemed to wobble beneath him. “Bill?” he asked.

Bill Denbrough fidgeted on his doorstep. “H-hey, Richie,” he said. A flush was riding high on his cheekbones. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his jeans, and he shifted uncomfortably on the stoop. Richie stared at him.

“What—” Richie started to say, but Bill held up a hand. 

“Wait,” he said in a rush. “Before y-you say anyth-thing, p-please, I gotta say something f-f-first.” He moved forwards. Richie, too shocked to do anything but gape, moved back automatically, and Bill took that as an invitation to step inside the door.

What the fuck was Bill _doing here?_ The curse was prickling under Richie’s skin, telling him that he needed to hurry up and 

_(“get rid of them. Fast.”)_

follow Hockstetter’s last order, but for the moment Richie wasn’t even aware of the sensation. “Bill?” he repeated, his voice about an octave higher than normal. “What are you—”

Bill wouldn’t let him finish the question. “I’m— I n-n-need— I mean I w-w-w-w-w—” he said, and his stutter was so strong that he choked on the word. His face reddened and the muscles in his neck bunched together as he tried to force his tongue to work. Richie hated it when he got stuck like this. It made him want to pound Big Bill on the back, as though Bill had a piece of food stuck in his throat.

Except he didn’t feel that way today. Today, he only felt a gritty, burning sensation growing in his guts the longer Bill stood in his entryway. Fuck, fuck, fuck, regardless of what Bill wanted, why did his timing have to be so spectacularly _shitty_? The fear that had been swept away by the surprise of seeing Bill on his doorstep now crashed back into him. Fuck. _Fuck_. Richie shot a glance back towards the closed kitchen door. Bill couldn’t be here. He _couldn’t be here_. Richie didn’t care if Bill was here to tell him that he hated Richie, that he never wanted to talk to him again or that he thought Richie was a liar and a freak and whatever the fuck else. Richie had to get him to leave. Not because Hockstetter had told him to, but because Richie couldn’t let Hockstetter get anywhere _close _to Bill. Bill had no idea what was lurking in Richie’s kitchen. And—fuck, forget Hockstetter, Richie couldn’t let _Bill _anywhere near the kitchen. Bill’s goddamn hero complex was about a mile wide. If he knew that Hockstetter was here, he’d be harder to get rid of than a dog that had smelled cooking meat.

“Listen, Bill,” Richie said, cutting off Bill’s stutter. “Could you come back at, oh, literally _any other time?_ Your timing is shit.”

It was rude, and not exactly what Richie had wanted to say, but it got the point across. The pain of the curse was building, growing from a distant ache to sharp, cramping jolts through his midsection. 

“N-no,” Bill said stubbornly. “I’m not c-c-coming b-back later, I’m h-h-here and I—”

“Bill,” Richie interrupted. “I don’t care. Not now, you need to leave. Tell me you hate me or whatever on Monday, okay? Work on the speech a bit longer, just save it for another time.”

“Th-that’s not wh-wh-what I’m h-here t-t-to—”

“Bill, Jesus!” Richie shouted. “Can’t you see I don’t want you here?” 

Bill scowled. “You’re n-n-not letting m-me fin-finish—”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock, you didn’t come during business hours! Check the fucking schedule and go make an appointment with the receptionist! Just get the fuck off of my dick and—”

“_I was an asshole!_” Bill roared, his voice so loud that Richie actually took a step back. “I was a dick and I’m fucking sorry, Rich! I shouldn’t have walked out like that, after you came clean to us, and I fucking understand why you don’t want me here, but I’m trying to apologize!” He dragged a hand through his hair, making it stand up in small spikes. “It was just — Jesus, Rich, it w-was a lot to t-take in at once, y-you know? Like, t-t-talk ab-bout out of the f-fucking blue. And w-with everything that’s happened th-th-this week, I just— I overreact-ted, a-alright? A-and I shouldn’t have d-d-done that. I’m s-sorry. But I-I want you t-to know that his d-d-doesn’t change…” 

He trailed off, staring at Richie. “Why is y-your mouth bleeding?” he asked abruptly.

Richie startled. His thoughts were still struggling to catch up, and he was caught completely off guard by the question. Bill had come back. He’d come back? He’d just _apologized?_ “What?” he said.

“You’re b-bleeding,” Bill said.

“I am?” Richie asked. He could hardly understand what Bill was saying. A warm glow kindled in the pit of his stomach. Bill had come _back._ Thoughts ran in a frantic loop around Richie’s brain. Bill had forgiven him? He’d at least apologized, just like Eddie had said he would. Richie tried to focus, to shake the ringing out of his ears, but the screech of the curse

_(get rid of them)_

inside his head was making it hard to think.

“Your mouth,” Bill said. “It’s all b-b-bloody.” His eyebrows were furrowed.

“Oh! Ah. It’s nothing,” Richie said, and tried for a smile. A great weight was lifting off of his chest. He wanted to hug Bill for coming back. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to shove Bill backwards off his porch and slam the door in his face. He wanted

_(no, he didn’t)_

to go back to the kitchen where Hockstetter was waiting. Pain drove blunt fingers into his lungs, constricting, until Richie thought that all the air must be squeezed out from his body. 

“Big Bill, I appreciate you coming by and all — real nice of you — but we really are going to have to save this conversation for later,” he managed to say. He moved to close the door, the clench of muscle in his stomach loosening as he did so, but Bill put out a hand and stopped him. Bill was frowning. His eyes roved over Richie’s face, taking in the bloody mouth, the redness on his chin where Richie had hit the forest floor. His gaze rose back to Richie’s, and Richie knew that, for the first time, he was noticing the flush in Richie’s cheeks and the jittering in his hands.

“Rich, what— what the hell happened?” Bill demanded.

Instead of answering, Richie tried to slam the door. Bill blocked him again with his stupid, too-broad shoulder.

“Richie, what the hell?” he hissed.

The curse was expanding inside Richie’s chest like a giant balloon. He threw himself against the door, casting a quick glance back at the kitchen to make sure that Hockstetter hadn’t come out to check what was taking Richie all fucking day. Bill’s eyes followed Richie’s and understanding came into his face. He planted his feet against Richie’s weight and shoved his way inside the house. “Is there s-someone h-h-here?” he asked, his voice dropping to a murmur.

“No,” Richie said. “Just— Bill, you need to leave. Stop being so goddamn annoying about this. We’ll talk later, okay?” He put his hands on Bill’s shoulders to steer him back outside, but Bill shook him off.

“You’re l-lying,” Bill said. He spoke slowly, as though working through some problem in his head. “I c-c-can tell. You’re lying to m-me, w-why would y-y-you…” His voice faded, and he turned first to look at Richie’s bloody lips, then towards the closed kitchen door. Richie took the opportunity to grab one of Bill’s arms, planning on _dragging _Bill outside if it would alleviate the awful pain under his skin. He tugged and managed to yank Bill two steps towards the door before Bill wrenched his arm away.

“Bill, _please_,” Richie said, his voice rising. Tears pricked his eyes. He wanted to double over from the ghastly feeling of the curse writhing inside him. He grabbed at Bill’s arm again, but Bill caught his wrists. “Just _leave,_ dammit!”

“No,” Bill said, and his tone was steely. Before Richie could stop him, Bill was striding across the living room and banging through the kitchen door.

Terror choked Richie’s throat. He pelted after him, skidding through the kitchen doorway with his heart hammering and nausea twisting in his stomach. The dissonance of the curse vibrated his bones. He nearly crashed headlong into Bill, who had stopped just inside.

“What the fuck,” Bill said.

Hockstetter was leaning against the counter near the sink with his arms crossed lazily over his chest. He looked strangely soft in the late-morning light that streamed through the window over the sink, illuminating him from behind. Wisps of his dark hair haloed his head in gold. If he was surprised at Bill’s sudden entrance, he hid it well. He took in the scene with an impassive expression, only raising a single eyebrow when he caught sight of Richie and shaking his head as though disappointed.

“Thought I told you not to let anyone in, Tozier,” he said, and his voice alone made Richie tremble.

“Hockst-st-stetter?” Bill said. He sounded baffled. “What are y-you doing h-h-here?”

Hockstetter shrugged, uncrossing his arms so that he could stick his hands in his pockets. “Tutoring,” he said.

“Tutoring?” Bill repeated. Richie almost couldn’t hear him over the thunder of his heart in his ears. “You’re n-not a tutor.”

“Sure I am,” Hockstetter said easily. “Seems Four-eyes here is fucking piss-poor at biology, so Mrs. Huxley assigned me to make sure he doesn’t completely fail out. Ain’t that right, Trashmouth? Go on, tell him.”

Richie’s knees nearly buckled as the curse exploded inside of him. The strength of it took his breath away, as though the curse was trying to make up for his failure to kick Bill out of the house. It scraped over his nerves, wringing them raw, and Richie blurted out, “yeah, that’s right. He’s tutoring me.”

The curse withdrew, leaving Richie lightheaded with relief.

Bill stared at Richie. Then, as though the vertebrae in his neck hadn’t been oiled in years, his head creaked over to stare at Hockstetter. There was something in his face, a fierce, terrible something that made Richie want to hide himself behind the strong, straight line of Bill’s back. “You’re not a tutor,” he said.

“Bill—” Richie began, but Bill grabbed his hand. Bill’s bright blue eyes met his own.

“Tell me the truth, Rich,” he said, and all at once the air was gone from Richie’s body as the curse swept over him. “Is Hockstetter really tutoring you?”

“No,” Richie whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding tightly to Bill’s hand. God, Bill couldn’t be here. Bill had no idea what sort of danger he had walked into, what sort of person

_(monster, Hockstetter was a fucking **monster**)_

was in the room with them. “Bill, please, you’ve gotta—”

Bill wasn’t listening. He straightened up, his shoulders squared, and faced Hockstetter from across the room. “Y-you need to l-leave,” he said.

The shadow of a smile lifted the corners of Hockstetter’s mouth. “Oh, really?” he said. “That’s news to me. Are you the one who’s gonna m-m-m-m-m-m-make me, Billy-boy?”

Bill’s hands balled into fists. “If I h-have t-t-to, y-yeah.”

“Bill,” Richie tried again, imploring. “Just leave, please, I can handle—”

“No,” Bill said, not taking his gaze off Hockstetter. “Not a cha-chance.”

“That’s sweet,” Hockstetter said. He stood up from the counter, and any illusions of softness about him were gone at once. He was all sharpness, from the points of his teeth as he smiled to the cords of lean muscle stretched over his bones. “But I think I’m going to have to ask _you_ to leave, B-b-b-billy-boy. You’re the one who barged in uninvited, after all,” he said.

Fear filled Richie’s chest. His throat became a straw through which to suck air — he felt like Eddie during a fucking asthma attack — and he swore he could feel his balls drawing right back up into his stomach. “Bill,” he hissed. “For the love of Jesus Christ-on-a-cracker, don’t—

Bill stepped in front of him, and Richie wanted to punch him in his self-sacrificing ribs. “That’s not what I meant!” Richie whispered shrilly. “That’s the fucking opposite of what I meant!”

“You should listen to your friend, Billy,” Hockstetter said.

“Shut uh-up,” Bill said. He took a small step back, keeping Richie behind him, as Hockstetter advanced on the two of them. “I don’t kn-know what y-y-you’re d-doing here, but you’re not f-fucking staying. G-get out.”

Hockstetter tilted his head to one side, a smirk curling his mouth. “But I don’t want to leave yet. Tozier over there doesn’t want me to either, do you Four-eyes? Go on, tell him. Tell him how we were having fun before he got here.”

Richie’s fingers wound into the hem of Bill’s shirt, gripping so tightly that his knuckles were white and bloodless. Bill half-turned towards him, mouth opening as if to say something, but the words were already spilling out of Richie’s mouth. He felt like a fucking puppet, and Hockstetter had his arm jammed up Richie’s ass, using his fingers to make Richie’s jaw flap up and down like a goddamned stage prop. “I don’t want him to leave,” Richie said. “We were having fun before you got here.”

Bill looked at him, ashen and horrified, while behind him, Hockstetter laughed. “You heard him! Scram, go on. Before I lose my patience.”

Bill’s gaze shot back to Hockstetter. “St-stop that,” he said.

“Stop what?” Hockstetter asked, amused.

“Stop telling him— y-you — are you…?” Bill stuttered, off balance and unsure of what to say.

Hockstetter stared at Bill impassively, his posture giving nothing away, but Richie could see bright enjoyment in the curve of his lips. “Are you fucking mental, Denbrough?” he asked. He waved a hand as though he was fed up with the entire conversation. “Four-eyes, tell your friend to go home.”

“Don’t s-say it, Rich,” Bill said sharply.

An awful twist of vertigo rocked through Richie at the rapid-fire, conflicting commands. He let out a panting breath, clinging to the back of Bill’s shirt to ground himself, and swallowed down a sudden rush of saliva that filled his mouth. The curse buzzed, then settled under Bill’s words. Richie kept silent.

Hockstetter jerked his head down to look at Bill. “Huh,” he said. “Guess Fuckface’s secret isn’t as secret as I thought. You like it better when your friend orders you around instead of me, Doll?”

The muscles in Bill’s arms flexed, and Richie felt the shirt in his hand stretch as Bill took a step forward. “You kn-know?” he said in disbelief. “How the f-f-fuck did y-you—”

“You’re really throwing a wrench in my plans,” Hockstetter interrupted. “Always gotta be a pain in the ass, don’t you, Denbrough?”

Richie had never seen Bill so angry. His cheeks were red, almost as red as his hair, and thick tendons were standing out in his neck and forearms. “If you’ve h-hurt R-r-richie—” he said.

“Oh kid, that ship has sailed,” Hockstetter said. He grinned and cocked his head so that he could catch Richie’s eye over Bill’s shoulder. “It sailed a while ago. Ain’t that right, Fuckdoll? You want to tell your friend about all the fun we’ve had? Or are you gonna hide behind him forever?”

Richie’s face burned. He wanted to tell Hockstetter to shut the fuck up, but shame clogged his throat. Hockstetter was fucking right, what was he _doing? _ He might be a coward, but he couldn’t let Bill stand as a shield between him and a fucking lunatic. He moved to step around Bill, letting go of Bill’s shirt, but Bill lifted an arm and swept Richie behind him. “Don’t listen to him, Rich,” Bill said. “Don’t do what he says.”

Hockstetter laughed again. His focus was all on Bill, his hungry, lizard-like gaze unwavering. Richie wanted to jump in front of Bill to make Hockstetter stop looking at him like that, but every time he tried to dodge around Bill, Bill pushed him back. “You don’t know jack shit about obedience curses, do you, Billy-boy?” Hockstetter said. “You’re not helping your friend at all.”

Bill’s eyes darted uncertainly to Richie, then back to Hockstetter.

“It’s not as simple as throwing out orders whenever you like,” Hockstetter told him. “There’s an art to making it work. There are rules. If you’re real, then it’s easy to learn them if you know where to look. If you’re just another dumb cow, well…”

“What are you t-t-talking about?” Bill snapped.

Hockstetter’s grin spread until Richie thought he could count every one of Hockstetter’s white teeth. “Well, for example? What you tried to do right there? Bad idea. First rule of giving orders, you’ve gotta put a time limit on it if you want it to stick. If you don’t, then the next order just undoes that shit immediately.” He glanced over at Richie. “Hey, Dollface, do what I tell you to do and give Denbrough a slap upside the head for not doing his research.”

A noise of frustration rattled in Richie’s chest. His unburnt hand quivered, paused, and then he reached up to hit his fingers lightly against the back of Bill’s head. No more than a tap, really, but hey. Loopholes. Hockstetter thought he knew curses? Fuck that. _Richie_ knew curses, he’d been living with one his whole damn life.

“See, Denbrough?” Hockstetter asked. “Now, if you really didn’t want him to listen to me, you should’ve said something like: ‘don’t do that ever again.’” Bill opened his mouth to reply, but Hockstetter held up a hand. “Ah, I’m not done yet. Because if you were about to do something stupid like telling Fuckface over there to never, ever listen to me, that would also be a bad idea.”

“And why ih-is th-that?” Bill spat. Richie could see that he was torn. One half of him wanted to rush Hockstetter there and then, consequences be damned. The other, larger part of him was scared, because what if Hockstetter did know more about curses? And why was he telling them this? Bill wasn’t sure what game Hockstetter was playing, and his indecision made him hesitate.

“Because that’s the tricky thing about obedience,” Hockstetter said. “What happens when he’s told never to do something, and then someone tells him to do it anyway?”

“I— Wh-what?”

Hockstetter smiled at Bill’s blank incomprehension. “I’ll rephrase. What happens when he gets conflicting orders?”

Bill’s eyes flicked once again to Richie and back.

Hockstetter’s smile gained a sly edge, and Richie felt the tips of his fingers grow cold. “Here, I’ll show you. I’m sure you’d love to see. Hey, Dollface? Keep quiet for the next minute, yeah? But also, sing me something while you’re at it. “Hey, Jude,” maybe. Don’t stop until I tell you.”

Richie and Bill stared at him. 

“What,” Bill said flatly.

Richie almost laughed. It was possibly the strangest thing that anyone had ever told him to do. He wanted to pinch his arm to make sure that he wasn’t imagining such an absurd situation — who would’ve guessed that Hockstetter would be a Beatles fan? — but the urge left him almost as soon as it appeared. A wholly unpleasant sensation was bubbling up behind his ribs. It was a sickening wrongness, a sticky… _something_ that spread up into his throat as though he’d swallowed a pint of crude oil. He made a soft noise. It might have almost been a question, but then the first lyrics

_(Hey, Jude)_

sprang unbidden into his mind. He opened his mouth reflexively, feeling pressure in his throat and lungs as words jammed up against his lips, but when he tried to shape them his tongue felt dead and limp. Lyrics echoed in his head. He needed to _sing_ them, which was weird because Richie was a god-awful singer and everyone knew it, but that unnatural need didn’t fade away. A sound

_(don’t make it bad)_

escaped him, what might have been the first note of the song, until pain

_(take a sad song)_

tore through him like a meat hook. He made another noise, not a note but a whimper, and Bill looked over in time to see Richie stagger, his unburnt hand grasping at his chest.

_(and)_

“Make it better,” Richie whispered.

“Rich!” Bill said. He grabbed Richie’s arm.

“Remember to let her into your heart—” Richie sang, but he couldn’t finish the line. His mouth snapped closed.

“Rich, what’s—fuck!” Bill said, breaking off as Richie gave a wet, painful cough. Richie’s hands shook as he grasped Bill’s wrist, and he saw that Bill’s eyes were wide and scared. “Rich, it’s okay, just stop singing!”

_(then you can start)_

Richie shook his head. A terrible, ripping feeling was growing inside him, as though Hockstetter’s two commands had each grabbed onto one side of his ribcage

_(to make it better)_

and were slowly pulling him apart. He _needed _to sing but he _couldn’t_ sing, and— 

“Hey Jude, don’t be afraid,” Richie sang, and he felt a trickle of wetness from the corner of one eye. He thought it might have been a tear, but when

_(you were made to)_

he reached up to wipe it away, his fingers came back red. “Go out and get her,” he rasped.

“Take it back!” Bill was shouting at Hockstetter. “Stop it, you fucking bastard, take it back!” He was still holding Richie’s shirt, and when Richie’s legs gave out

_(the minute)_

from under him, Bill was just fast enough to catch him before he hit the ground.

Somewhere, Richie thought that Hockstetter might have been laughing again.

“You’re killing him!” Bill screamed at Hockstetter.

“You let her under your skin,” Richie sang. His voice teetered through the lyrics. “Then you begin—”

_(to make it better)_

Richie bent his head forward, gasping for air. A drop of blood fell from the corner of his eyes to splatter on the inner curve of his glasses lens. His stomach clenched, heaved, and he retched dryly. A bitter stream of coffee filled his mouth. He spat it onto the floor.

“And anytime you feel the pain,” he choked out.

_(Hey Jude, refrain)_

“Richie, stop singing, you don’t have to sing,” Bill said, beyond desperation. He crouched in front of Richie. His hand supported Richie’s neck, but even as he said it, Richie knew it wouldn’t work.

_(“That’s the tricky thing,” Hockstetter had said)_

“Don’t carry the world,” Richie sang. He retched again. The coppery taste of blood was thick in his mouth.

_(“Don’t stop until I tell you,” Hockstetter had said)_

_(Upon your shoulders)_

He was on his hands and knees. The brand on his chest burned like fire, like it was fresh. 

_(For well you know)_

“Richie, look at me,” Bill was saying, and his fingers were on Richie’s chin.

_(That it’s a fool)_

“Who plays it c-cool,” Richie sobbed. “By making his world—"

_(a little colder)_

He could hear Bill yelling, but he couldn’t

_(Hey Jude)_

make out the words.

Until, with no warning or fanfare, the horrible, rending sensation inside him was gone. The lyrics to “Hey, Jude” faded from his mind. He gasped in a shuddering breath and would have fallen forward onto his face if Bill hadn’t been there to steady him.

“Richie? Richie!” Bill was shouting. “Are you alright? Talk to me!” His terror was evident in the crushing grip of his hands on Richie’s shoulders, in the rings of white all around his irises.

Richie swallowed a mouthful of blood, willing his body to stop shaking. He reached up and snagged one of Bill’s elbows. “Still—” he said, and then paused to cough. Flecks of red speckled the floor in front of him, but Richie wasn’t sure if it was old blood from hitting his chin or new blood from Hockstetter’s words shredding him from the inside out. He readjusted his hold on Bill’s arm. “Still a great song,” he croaked. “Fucking iconic, really.”

Bill laughed. It was high and frantic, a sound that Richie had never heard before and hoped never to hear again. But Bill grinned nevertheless. “It’s o-over-rat-ted, in m-m-my opinion,” he said. 

Richie tried to smile. He tapped on Bill’s wrist, and without needing an explanation, Bill helped him to his feet. Together, they looked over at Hockstetter.

“And that, Billy-boy,” Hockstetter said. “Is why it’s a really good idea for you to watch your words, and why it’s a really bad idea to try to tell Tozier who he can and can’t listen to.” He had gone back to leaning against the counter in order to watch the show. Naked delight gleamed in his eyes as he took in the red tear tracks down the sides of Richie’s nose.

“You’re f-f-fucking s-sick, Hock-hockstetter!” Bill said. Richie was leaning on his shoulder, waiting for his muscles to stop shivering. Very slightly, Bill turned his head to the side and breathed out in a whisper, “c-can you r-r-run?”

“Yeah,” Richie murmured, not moving his lips. He had no idea if he could actually run or not — right now, all he wanted to do was flop onto the floor with an ice pack and a recovery drink — but he was sure as hell gonna give it the old college try. Anything was better than staying here, with Hockstetter.

“Funny,” Hockstetter said to Bill. “That’s the same thing Dollface over there told me.” His smile changed, became something meaner, sleazier, and he slouched back against the marble countertop so that his hips were thrust out by the ledge. “I can’t remember if that was before or after I put him on his knees and—”

“Shut up!” Richie screamed, so loudly and so abruptly that Bill jumped beside him. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” All thoughts of running fled from his mind. The terror was inside of him again like a wild thing, and he screamed over Hockstetter because Bill _couldn’t _know, he _couldn’t know, he **could not know**_. Hockstetter didn’t get to have the satisfaction of flaying Richie’s last secret from him. He didn’t get to have the satisfaction of throwing it at Bill’s feet like a hunting trophy, gloating over it just to see Bill’s reaction. No. Richie would not let him. “Shut the fuck up!” he screamed again.

“But I think your friend wants to hear,” Hockstetter said. His smile stretched farther, became a leer. “Don’t you, Billy?”

Bill was looking back and forth between Richie and Hockstetter, too shocked to reply. “I-I, I d-d-d-d-d-d—” he stuttered, and Richie straightened off from his shoulder. He took several steps forward, his hands still shaking but his legs steady. The sudden burst of strength surprised him, but he didn’t question it. He felt as he had that night in the dump, right before he’d punched Henry Bowers in his hateful, simpering face.

“You leave him the fuck alone, Hockstetter,” Richie said.

Hockstetter pushed away from the counter and stalked across the kitchen until he was in front of Richie, looming over him. “That’s a new tone,” he said, trying to crowd Richie backwards, but Richie held his ground. “You finally found a pair of balls in there?”

“Fuck you,” Richie hissed again. His body felt lit up. Electric. “Stay the fuck away from my friends, asshole.”

Hockstetter’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Big words, Dollface,” he said. “Wouldn’t have guessed you had it in you. Especially considering what you were about to do before Billy-boy barged in on us. You’re feeling brave, all of a sudden? Brave enough to tell Billy how you were about to get down and suck—”

Richie’s knee came up between Hockstetter’s legs.

If you’d asked him in the moment, Richie would have truthfully said that he hadn’t meant to do it. It was — pardon the pun — a knee-jerk reaction. Of course, that didn’t mean that it wasn’t supremely satisfying to watch Patrick Hockstetter’s eyes bulge from his head as Richie’s kneecap connected with his crotch.

Hockstetter folded like a house made of playing cards. He fell silently, his hands moving to cup his groin, and a rush of — it wasn’t happiness. Vindication? — expanded Richie’s lungs. “Guess I did find my balls,” he said savagely. “But I think I found yours too, you fucking prick.”

He had a moment of pride, both for the blow and his excellent one-liner (he’d have to remember that one to tell Eddie later), before Hockstetter reached out and grabbed Richie’s ankle. Quick as a snake, Hockstetter had rolled onto his knees and yanked Richie’s feet out from under him. Richie fell on his back with a yelp that broke into a wheeze as his cuts and bruises smacked against Maggie’s wooden floor. The back of his head hit the ground and he blinked away streaks of light just as Hockstetter appeared above him. Hockstetter’s teeth were bared, with no hint of a smile in sight.

“I’m gonna make you bleed for that, Fuckface,” he promised. His fist rose.

With a loud cry, Bill crashed into Hockstetter’s side, throwing the larger boy to the floor. Hockstetter landed on one shoulder, but Bill didn’t stop. “Fuck you, you fucking sadist!” Bill shouted. His body seemed to vibrate with pent-up, righteous energy. Hockstetter rolled onto his side, towards Bill, and made a grab for the hem of Bill’s shirt. Bill leapt backwards, sneakers squeaking against the polished wood, and with more power than Richie would have believed, he drove his foot into Hockstetter’s stomach. 

The air left Hockstetter with a strangled _whoosh_. His mouth dropped open in a stupid “O,” and he gave a agonized, gurgling groan. His eyes locked onto Bill’s face, hate like a flame in his dark pupils. He tried to speak, and Bill kicked him again, so hard that Hockstetter’s body actually lifted an inch or two off the ground. Hockstetter’s eyelids fluttered in pain. “Stay the fuck down,” Bill snarled.

He turned back to lean over Richie. “Are y-you alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Richie said. Bill held out a hand to help him up, but then there was a blur of motion in the corner of Richie’s vision. “Watch out!” Richie screamed. He was too late.

Hockstetter barreled into Bill, his glassy eyes red and wide with rage. His long, spiderlike hands wrapped around Bill’s throat, and his momentum was so great that he carried Bill right off his feet. Bill was tall, but Hockstetter was taller, and when Hockstetter slammed him up against the door leading to the living room, Bill’s toes were brushing the floor. Bill scrabbled at Hockstetter’s fingers, fighting for air, but Hockstetter shook him hard, like a dog with a rabbit, until Bill’s hands fell away. There was nothing sane left in Hockstetter’s expression.

“I’ve had enough of this bullshit,” he said.

Bill made a high, choking noise, and Richie could see the flesh of his neck beginning to bulge out around Hockstetter’s knuckles as Hockstetter squeezed. Bill kicked at Hockstetter’s legs, yanking at Hockstetter’s hold on his throat, but there was no strength in his movement. He must’ve hit his head when Hockstetter ran him into the door.

Richie staggered to his feet and threw himself at Hockstetter, driving his uninjured fist into Hockstetter’s ribs. He heard Bill gasp in a greedy breath as Hockstetter’s fingers loosened, but then pain exploded between Richie’s eyes as Hockstetter headbutted him. There was a crunch and a snapping sound. Richie fell backwards, his hands going to his face, only to realize that one of the lenses in his glasses had cracked.

“Sit down and wait your turn,” Hockstetter growled. “I’ll deal with you after.” His nose was streaming blood, and it took Richie a moment to understand that the crunching noise had been Hockstetter nose breaking against Richie’s own forehead. Hockstetter bore down again, and above his fingers, Bill’s face started to turn red.

Richie’s legs shook as the order crashed into him. His knees attempted to buckle, and a deep, familiar pain awoke within him as he refused to let them. _No_, he thought to himself. _Not again_.

_(He could feel the smack of Eddie’s head hitting the school hallway floor, and the vibrations that travelled up his arms as his fists crashed down one two three on Eddie’s cheek)_

He couldn’t let another one of his friends get hurt. Not by him. Not _because_ of him. He locked his knees, feeling nausea building in his stomach as every nerve in his body screamed for him to sit down. Bill’s eyes met his over Hockstetter’s shoulder. His lips were turning blue, and even as Richie watched, a bright red dot bloomed in the white of Bill’s right eye.

_(No, no, no, no, **no**)_

Richie took a step forward, then another, the curse _howling_ beneath his skin. His stomach convulsed and he staggered, catching himself against the kitchen table. He gagged again, and fresh wetness spilled from his eyes, dripping blood onto the pristine tabletop. His legs cramped, muscles twitching, and Richie fell to one elbow as his right leg spasmed beneath him. Behind him, the sounds of Bill’s desperate choking faded entirely.

Richie’s burned hand closed around the handle of Maggie’s heavy, steel coffeemaker, left on the table from earlier.

_(Please, God, don’t let my other leg go out)_

Richie shoved away from the table, pivoted, and brought the coffeemaker down on the back of Hockstetter’s head with all the strength he had left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many Brownie points go to RogueArcher, who guessed a lot of the plot of this chapter, up to and including the fate of the coffeepot. Brownie points also go to silverwolf3432 and Arithese for guessing that Bill was gonna come to his senses and barge right in :P I thought I was being so clever with my plot and you guys were like, four steps ahead of me!
> 
> I know a lot of you were worried that we were diving right back into the angst after last chapter, so hopefully this held up to hopes and expectations :) I fully promise, it is comfort and nothing else from here on out! For real this time.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for everyone who left kudos and reviews. I really do treasure them, and if you liked this story (which I assume you have, since you've read this far?) then it would mean a lot to me if you'd consider leaving one <3 It's really the only way that I can know what you guys liked and didn't like! But, either way, thank you for hanging with me for this long. Again, I'll try to get to responding to reviews later tonight or tomorrow morning!
> 
> Since my schedule has been so crazy the past couple of weeks, I'm going to set the date for the next update a little farther out this time :( I want to avoid another missed posting date... So, I'm setting it for November 10th, two Sunday's from next. It's a bit long, but hopefully it'll give me time to finish up the last couple chapters. 
> 
> See you then <3


	9. Part 9 - 1991: Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m fine,” Richie insisted. “It’s just some bruising.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends! Happy Sunday!
> 
> Thank you so much everyone for your patience while I got this chapter out <3 especially after the cliffhanger of the last chapter. You guys are the best readers ever. This chapter is pretty long, so hopefully its a good payoff!
> 
> Me: I really need to start tying up all the loose ends that I left myself  
Also me: Writes 16000 words of people taking care of Richie with no plot development in sight
> 
> For all the people who noticed when I added the pre-Richie/Eddie tag and immediately wondered "doesn't that tag need actual Reddie action?" --> Yes. Yes it does. Enjoy ;)
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Blood, minor graphic gore, panic attacks, references to past violence and sexual assault. As always, please let me know if I should anything to the list.

Of course, it was Cynthia Hoffer — nosy, nervous, busybody Cynthia Hoffer — who called the police when she heard the crashes and raised voices coming from the Tozier household. To hear any sort of noise from the Tozier household was unusual: Mr. and Mrs. Tozier were almost never home, after all. Cynthia nearly dropped her potted begonias in surprise when she heard shouts coming from over her garden fence. It was only after the first crash reached her, the smash and rattle of heavy objects colliding, that Cynthia regained the presence of mind to pick up the phone.

The first cruiser arrived on the scene at approximately 11:35 a.m., ten minutes after the call was placed. The two cops inside (it was Officer Aloysius Nell and Officer Linda Conroy, for those curious enough to wonder) didn’t bother to turn on their siren. It was most likely a domestic dispute, the dispatcher had warned. Money always seemed to drive people off the rails, and the house that they pulled up to certainly screamed money. The whitewash was as clean as the day it had been applied, and there were panels of cut, colored glass in the front windows. A spacious and well-groomed lawn sprawled on either side of the driveway, which unfurled from a three-car garage. Though the house was only two stories, the width of the house more than made up the loss in height. The property extended nearly halfway down the block. 

Nell sent his partner a wry look as they climbed out of the car. “My bet is that it’s the wife,” he said. His accent was a strong Irish brogue, and his words seemed to flutter and lilt as they came off his tongue. His police-man’s blues were heavy in the spring heat, and small circles of sweat had already darkened the cloth beneath his armpits. “No doubt. The husband bought her the wrong perfume brand, or forgot anniversary plans, and now she’s throwing all the china she can reach at the poor fella.”

“Nope, it’s the husband. Gotta be,” Conroy replied good-naturedly. “Hear how quiet the house is? The wife would be screeching bloody murder. No noise means it’s the husband. He probably came home to find her fucking the pool-boy and went off his rocker.” She shook her head, hitching up the utility belt around her narrow waist. 

They strolled up the driveway together, trading bets back and forth, until Officer Nell stopped. He stared towards the front door. “Linda,” he said, voice low.

Conroy followed her partner’s gaze and saw that one of the glass panels on the oak front door had been knocked in. Her hand moved to the butt of her gun. She didn’t unsnap the holster strap, but the humor drained from her face, making her high cheekbones stand out in ridges underneath her skin. “Think they just forgot to fix it?” she asked grimly, and Nell shook his head. 

There was no more banter after that. Nell knocked once on the door, calling “Derry Police Department! We’re here about a noise complaint, is anyone in there?”

No one came to the door. The house stayed silent and dead, and Nell glanced at Conroy, unsmiling. He knocked once more, waited, then reached through the broken window pane to unlock the door. His fingers fumbled with the latch, and he withdrew a second later with a grimace. The bolt had already been pulled back.

The entranceway opened onto a sitting room to the left, and a flight of stairs leading to the second level on the right. There was nothing out of place in the sitting room — no furniture overturned, all the pictures still in their frames on the walls — but Officer Nell felt a chill of unease nevertheless. The house was very still. The glass baubles lining the mantel above the fireplace winked at them in the sunlight spilling through the front windows. Without speaking, Nell gestured for Officer Conroy to check upstairs. Conroy nodded, and Nell stepped farther into the sitting room.

Past the couch and the elegantly-carved coffee table, he could hear that the house was not entirely quiet. Muffled sounds reached him, too soft to be identified. Their cadence rose and fell gently, like waves ebbing against the shoreline, and Nell loosened his grip on the butt of his gun. He listened closer.

“…move soon, swear to…”

Nell frowned. The voice was young.

“…can’t be worse than… think they’d cast us? I… like a couple of mutants, but Eddie’s mom would…”

Nell didn’t understand what any of that meant, but the voice broke off as a spate of coughing interrupted the flow of words. Those were not the sounds of a couple in marital or physical distress. Nell felt the adrenaline leave him as he crossed the room and pushed open the far door into a modern, gleaming kitchen.

“…try to talk, you idiot,” the voice was saying.

“Hello?” Nell said, and then froze as he took in the scene before him.

The first thing he noticed was the foot, because as he entered, the door pushed against it, sliding it limply across the floor. Nell’s gaze travelled upwards, to a jean-clad leg and higher, to a torso and finally to the face of a boy. A teenager, by the look of him, with sallow cheeks and the faint wisps of a mustache above his upper lip. The boy wasn’t moving. His eyes were slitted closed, with only a faint sliver of whites peeking out from beneath the lids. His hair was spread around his head in a dark halo. A mess of blood covered his nose and lips. There was a purple bruise was spreading from his misshapen nose and into the hollows of his eye sockets.

Nell saw the source of the voice second, though the murmuring had stopped as soon as he had pushed through the door. There were two more boys in the room — teenagers too, though a little younger than the first boy, if Officer Nell had to guess. One, with striking auburn hair, stared at him in complete shock. He was a handsome kid. On the skinnier side, but with shoulders that were broadening with puberty and a strong jawline that had sharpened out of any baby fat. A necklace of angry, red marks ringed the kid’s neck. His eyes were wide, and his gaze nearly made Officer Nell stumble until Nell realized what had unnerved him: the white of the kid’s right eye was a sanguine red, as though a vessel had burst somewhere underneath the membrane. His brown iris appeared to float in a pool of blood. 

The kid tried to stand as Officer Nell came in. He made it partway to his knees before the last boy pulled him back.

This last boy was – there was no way to sugarcoat it – a right mess. A large bruise stretched across one side of his jaw, extending over the same cheek to where one eye was puffed into a squint. The edges of his bruise were just beginning to tinge a yellowish-green as it healed. The boy was gangly, with long legs and freckles dotting the skin across his nose, where rested a cracked pair of coke-bottle glasses. The boy was holding one hand close to his chest, for what reason Officer Nell couldn’t say. These things might have not been too bad, all considered, if it hadn’t been for the tracks of blood that streaked down the boy’s face. They caked around his mouth and stained one lens of his glasses, as though he had been crying bloody tears.

The two younger boys were huddled together on the floor near the kitchen table. The auburn-haired boy had one arm wrapped tightly around the other’s shoulders, and the boy with the glasses had his free hand clenched in the auburn-haired boy’s shirt. Both of them stared at Officer Nell with a startled, almost somber intensity.

For a terrifying moment, Officer Nell’s mind was completely blank. He regarded the two boys on the floor with almost as much surprise as they did him. He had been expecting a domestic dispute, maybe some thrown belongings and tears, but no real physical damage. Neither he nor Officer Conroy had been expecting… this.

But instinct is a powerful thing. Nell had been working the beat for over thirty years now, and muscle memory – God bless it – kicked in. He dropped his hand from his gun, opening his fingers at his sides so that the boys could see that they were empty. “Hello there,” he said.

The auburn-haired boy began to speak, then broke off into a fit of painful coughing. The other boy, the one with glasses, readjusted their position so that his shoulder was propped under his friend’s, supporting the auburn-haired boy when he tipped sideways. After a few seconds, the auburn-haired boy got his breathing under control. He slumped against his friend, panting.

“Hello,” the boy with the glasses said quietly.

“My name is Officer Nell,” Nell said. He took a step into the kitchen but paused when both boys tensed. He kept his hands at his sides. “My partner, Officer Conroy, she’s upstairs right now.” His tone was soft, rolling through the words, and he hoped that the trill of his brogue might help to put these kids at ease. For all the other problems his accent had caused him, at the very least, children seemed to find it soothing. “We’re here to help, if you’ll let us.”

The auburn-haired boy opened his mouth again, but the boy with the glasses cut him off before he could speak.

“Bill, stop trying to talk, Jesus. You’re just hurting yourself,” he muttered. Then, suspiciously to Officer Nell: “How’d you get in?”

“The front door was open,” Nell said, and the kid blushed. Nell took it as a good sign that he was present and aware enough to feel embarrassed. “First, I’ve got to ask you, is there anyone else in the house?” he said.

The kid with the glasses shook his head.

“Alright. That’s great, lads. One second.” Nell turned his head back towards the living room and called out, “Linda, get down here! And radio for an ambulance!” 

From the corner of his sight, he saw the kid with the glasses jump at his unexpected shout. The auburn-haired boy – Bill? – tucked him more firmly against his own side. 

_ Fecking hell, Aloysius, _ Nell thought to himself.  _ Have a care. _

“Sorry about that,” Nell said, addressing the boys once more. He kept his movements slow and measured as he slid forward to crouch beside the oldest kid. “I’ve got lungs like bellows, my ma always told me. I’m just going to check on your friend here—”

“He’s not our friend!” the boy with the glasses burst out.

Nell nodded calmly. “My apologies. I’ll still check him over, whoever he is.” He placed two fingers on the eldest boy’s throat, searching, and found a pulse beating steadily under the skin.  _ Thank the Lord and whoever else is listening. _

Light footsteps pattered down the stairs, and a moment later Officer Conroy appeared in the doorway. “What’s— Goodness!” she said, and Nell glared at her.

“Don’t stand there with your jaw hanging. Is the ambulance on its way?” he asked.

Conroy fumbled at her belt. “I’ll call them, hold on.” She disappeared back into the sitting room, and Nell heard her muttering into her radio.

Nell turned his attention back to scene at hand. The two younger kids, while beat up, were at least awake, so he continued checking over the older one first, sweeping the boy for blood or any other injuries. He found a truly nasty goose egg on the back of the kid’s skull, but apart from that and the bloody, broken nose, he seemed alright. He didn’t wake up as Nell checked him over, but he wasn’t vomiting or convulsing either, so Nell figured he’d be okay, at least until the ambulance arrived. Nell sat back on his heels.

“So,” he said, his words still mild and nonthreatening. “Can either of you two tell me what happened here?”

The boys looked at each other, and a small conversation passed between them. Bill raised his eyebrows. The boy with the glasses gave one sharp shake of his head.

Officer Nell decided to make it easier for them. “How about we start with your names?” he said. “Derry is a small town, but even I can’t recognize every resident right off the bat.”

Another wordless conversation, and both boys squared their shoulders towards him. “I’m Richie,” the one with glasses said. “Richard Tozier. And this is Bill Denbrough.”

Bill gave a little wave.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Officer Nell said gravely. “Despite the circumstances.”

As he spoke, Conroy came back into the kitchen. “Ambulance is on its way,” she told Nell. “Be about six minutes.”

Nell thanked her with a nod. “Richard, Bill, this is Officer Conroy,” he said. “She’s my partner, and she’s going to help me get this all sorted out.”

“Hi,” Richie said. Bill waved again.

“Now, would you boys mind if we came over there? I can see a lot of blood from where I’m sitting, and I’m a bit concerned about that. We just want to check you over and make sure you’re not in immediate danger. Would that be alright?”

Richie’s hand flexed in Bill’s shirt, tightening until white tendons stood out beneath the boy’s skin. But after a second, he nodded, and Bill nodded too, so Nell and Officer Conroy carefully stepped around the eldest boy and came to squat beside Bill and Richie.

“Hi there,” Conroy said to Bill. “I see you’ve got some bruising around your neck, it looks pretty painful. Would you want to sit in one of these chairs here? It might make it easier for me to take a look at you if we’re both sitting up.”

Bill took a quick glance over at Richie, hesitated, and nodded. He put a hand to where Richie’s fingers were still tangled in his shirt and tapped Richie’s knuckles. Richie let go at once, wearing a surprised expression as though he hadn’t noticed the death-grip he’d kept on his friend. Conroy helped Bill to his feet and into one of the kitchen chairs, while Officer Nell bent over Richie.

“Do you want to sit too?” he asked, and Richie shrugged. 

“Alright. Give me a second.” Richie got his knees beneath him. Officer Nell put a hand under the boy’s arm, intending to help, but Richie jerked away so violently that he almost lost his balance and toppled over. 

“Easy there—” Nell began, but Richie cut him off.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, his voice just the wrong side of frantic. “I can stand up on my own.”

Nell backed down, palms out in apology, while Richie levered himself to his feet. A grimace flashed across his face, there and then gone, and his right hand remained curled against his chest as he moved. He dropped down into a seat across from Bill’s with his jaw clenched. Nell waited a moment until the boy seemed settled before pulling up a chair.

“How about we start with that hand?” he asked, dipping his head towards the hand held protectively against Richie’s body. Maybe he should’ve started with the bloody tear tracks down Richie’s cheeks, but he wasn’t a medical professional by any means. He had no idea of what bloody tears could be caused by. At least the boy wasn’t crying red tears  _ currently _ .

Richie paused for a long moment, watching Officer Nell with a hooded wariness. The fingers on his other hand drummed a pattern against his jean-clad knee, which, Nell saw, was colored green by a large grass stain. At last, Richie held out his hand, squeezing his eyes shut as Officer Nell took his wrist.

Nell resisted the urge to let out a low whistle. The boy’s palm was in bad shape. The span of it was covered in a sickly, grayish-red burn, with blisters full of milky liquid popping up under the damaged skin. The burns had cracked in multiple places and were oozing a mixture of blood and lymphatic fluid. In the center of the boy’s palm, the skin had been torn away in an ovoid shape, and Nell swallowed. He could see raw, inner meat beneath a chalky film of pus and blood.

“Care to tell me what happened here?” he asked. He allowed Richie to tug his hand away and waited patiently while Richie stared at the floor. He could see the gears in Richie’s mind spinning, deciding what to say, and Nell spoke again before Richie could hit him with a lie, or whatever half-truth bullshit the boy was cooking up. He’d talked to plenty of teenagers in his time, and he knew you couldn’t trust them to tell the truth when they thought they were in trouble. It was like expecting them not to throw a party when their parents were out of the house. “I wouldn’t bother lying, if I were you,” he told Richie. “It’s all going to come out in the end, son, so might as well start with the truth and cut out all the wasting time in the middle.”

The kid’s gaze flicked up to meet his own, and he made a strange, abortive gesture with his uninjured hand, as though to put his hand over his heart. “I won’t lie,” he said. “There’s just — I don’t know what to say.”

“You could start by telling me why there’s a boy knocked out on the floor over there,” Nell offered. “Or why you and your friend are both beat to hell and back.” 

Nell could make assumptions, of course. The bruises around Bill’s neck had been darkening into shapes that closely resembled fingermarks, although it was too soon to say for sure. He had a feeling that those marks might match the fingers of the kid laid out on the floor, but he needed the story from Richie’s own mouth before he started jumping to conclusions.

Richie wet his lips with his tongue. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Well, to start, that” — he pointed at the unconscious fellow — “is Patrick Hockstetter. He goes to school with us, but he’s not in our class. He’s older. He’s going to be a senior next year.”

Nell nodded without interrupting.

“Yeah. So. Um, Patrick’s a bully, which like, you could probably tell just by looking at him. Him and all his friends are real grade-A douchebags, if you know what I mean. Victor Criss isn’t terrible  _ all  _ the time, but if Belch or Henry are around then he turns into a fucking snake, and I thought—”

“‘Belch?’” Nell asked without meaning to. The name had shaken something loose in his mind. “The Huggins boy?” 

“Yeah,” Richie said. “Why?”

“No, no, nothing,” Nell said. He knew why that name was familiar. He and Conroy had busted Huggins for a Minor in Possession twice over the past year, along with a couple of his teenage friends. The sheriff’s kid, Henry, had been among them, although Bowers Sr. had gotten his kid out of both those sticky situations, if Nell remembered it right. He wondered whether the Henry that Richie had mentioned was the same kid, and if Hockstetter had been a part of those drinking episodes as well. But that didn’t matter for the moment, so he apologized and motioned for Richie to continue.

“Well, anyway,” Richie said. “I thought Hockstetter was like that, you know? A dick, sure, but sort of harmless — well, not  _ harmless _ — but like, not as tits-up malicious as some of the others?” He made a frustrated sound. “I’m not explaining this right.”

“You’re doing great,” Officer Nell said. While Richie spoke, he’d been looking the kid over, not touching, only doing a visual examination for blood or other wounds. The kid didn’t appear  _ too _ beat up; apart from his hand and the bruises on his face, Nell couldn’t find any major injuries. And those ghastly tear tracks, of course. Nevertheless, the way that Richie was holding himself made Nell think that the kid was probably hiding some more hurts under his clothes, but Nell didn’t think Richie would let him get in closer. Richie had a sort of manic energy about him, a vibrating tension that Nell associated with a combination of adrenaline and shock. His eyes kept shifting from one point to another. His fingers drummed a rhythm-less, unceasing pattern against his knee, and his words were coming out too fast, almost knocking into one another like impatient customers in line at the coffee counter. “Was Patrick the one who did that to your hand?” Nell asked.

The fingers on Richie’s unburnt hand tapped faster. Richie’s gaze darted to Nell, then away, and he wasn’t looking at Nell when he said “yeah.”

“Would you mind telling me how it happened?”

“He, uh — on Wednesday,” Richie said. His fingers tapped more rapidly yet. “He — and another guy, Henry, they — they caught me out by the dump. They, um — they — they beat me up. Burned my hand.”

Across the table, Nell saw that Bill had gone very still. He was listening too, even while Officer Conroy carefully felt around his neck.

“And then — well, I guess that was fun for them,” Richie continued, and his hand stopped tapping in favor of digging his fingers into his lower thigh, his nails scratching on denim. “Cause — well, fuck if I know, I like to think I’ve got my head screwed on a little straighter than those psychopaths. But, so, you probably saw the door on your way in? He broke it — the window, Patrick broke it to get in, I mean — and so I ran but that didn’t work, he just caught me again. Biggest mistake I ever made was not going out for track, right? Hindsight’s a twenty-twenty bitch, I always say, wot? Wot wot? So, here I am, thinking this little bugger is going to kill me right off, you know! And then my mate Bill over there comes tearing in — must’ve seen the window out, clever chap — and Patrick goes after  _ him _ —”

Nell held up a hand to stem the flow of words. Sometime during his explanation, Richie’s voice had changed, shifting higher, until it shadowed the tones of a stuffy British fellow. Or, at least, what a fifteen-to-sixteen-year-old boy thought a British fellow sounded like. Nell had seen many strange coping mechanisms in his years at crime scenes, but not this one. It was jarring to listen to Richie’s voice as it dipped in and out of his normal register, one moment solemn and matter-of-fact, the next nearly jaunty. The dissonance of his tone with the subject of his words was more than unsettling. 

“Why was Bill coming over?” Nell asked. “He couldn’t have been happening to pass by on the street.”

“No,” Richie said. “No, um, we’d had a fight earlier, so Bill was coming over so we could deal with that. I didn’t know he was coming, honestly.”

There was no hint of an accent that time, and Nell was relieved that Richie’s voice seemed to have stabilized into its usual cadence.

“I see,” he said. “So, Bill showed up, and then?”

“Patrick attacked him,” Richie said lowly. “He was choking him. I — Patrick was going to kill him. So, I hit Patrick over the head. With the coffee maker.”

Nell’s eyebrows rose. He studied the kid in front of him, his ridiculous glasses and lanky frame. Then he glanced over at the boy passed out on the floor, who must’ve outweighed Richie by a good thirty or forty pounds. “Hard hit,” he said, for lack of anything better.

For the first time, Richie smiled, small and fleeting. “Yessir,” he said.

In the distance, Nell heard the first wail of sirens. He stood up, hearing both his knees crack, and surveyed the room.  _ Christ, I’m getting old _ , he thought. Out loud, he said, “alright. The ambulances will be here in a minute or two. We’ll get the three of you examined by some proper professionals and—”

“No!” Richie interrupted, and blushed furiously when Nell looked at him. “I mean, I don’t need to go to the hospital. Bill definitely does, Jesus, he’s a mess, but I’m fine.”

Nell laughed. “Kid, what are you talking about? You look God-awful. You definitely need a hospital visit.”

“I’m fine,” Richie insisted. “It’s just some bruising.”

“If that’s just some bruising, then I’m a camel playing the piccolo in a four-man orchestra,” Nell said wryly. 

Richie blinked at him, attempting to puzzle out whatever the fuck Nell had just said before giving it up as a bad job and forging on. “No, I—”

“I’m sure your parents won’t be angry,” Nell soothed. “By the looks of this place, they’ve got more than enough to cover the cost of getting you patched up, and they’re gonna be relieved to know you’re okay. Trust me.” Nell patted him once on the shoulder as the sound of blaring sirens screeched to a stop on the street outside.

~

Over the next few days, Richie thought a lot about that last thing Officer Nell had promised him, and what a crock of horseshit that had been. Not the money bit, because of course the Tozier’s had enough of that, hospital bills or no hospital bills. Not even the “they won’t be angry” bit, because Maggie and Wentworth weren’t angry, as it ended up. They weren’t relieved either.

They simply weren’t there.

As the nurse explained to him in the waiting room at Derry General Hospital, there was no answer, not on Wentworth’s cell phone and not at the line for his office extension. Maggie didn’t own a cell phone, and so she was no option at all. After getting the name of the hotel in Bangor where the Tozier’s were staying, the hospital administration had tried to call directly to the room, only to be turned down. Mr. Tozier had asked not to be disturbed, the hotel clerk had reported. He and his wife were enjoying a well-deserved weekend getaway and were not to be bothered, not even for medical inquiries.

Richie sat in the waiting room for five hours before the head physician of pediatrics stomped over to him, muttering under her breath about child neglect, and led him back to an exam room. Because he was a minor and they had not been able to get medical permission from his parents, the hospital wasn’t legally able to treat him for anything less than an emergency situation.

“Officer Nell told us about your hand,” the doctor told him. The name on her tag read  **Alexandra Trishell** . “Which is the only reason I was able to get you back here in the first place. If there’s a danger of permanent damage, then we’re allowed to intervene.”

“I can’t just give you permission myself?” Richie asked. “I mean, I’m fifteen.”

The doctor shook her head. “I’m sorry. If we could get your folks on the phone, we’d be in better shape, but for now our hands are pretty well tied.”

“How’s Bill, at least?” Richie said as she snapped on a pair of blue, latex gloves.

“Who?”

“My friend. He was brought in with me.”

“Oh, yes. As far as I know, he’s doing fine.”

“‘Fine?’” Richie demanded. “That’s it? Slow down on those details, doc, I think I missed some of the finer points.”

Doctor Trishell smiled apologetically at him as she pulled up a stool and motioned for him to hold out his palm. “Sorry. I can’t tell you any more than that either. Patient confidentiality. Bureaucracy is a bitch every time, isn’t it?”

Her unprompted cuss word made Richie laugh without meaning to.

“For the moment, we need to focus on you, Richard,” she continued. Her demeanor grew serious. “Since we don’t have your parents’ consent, you need to tell me right now whether you have any more injuries that could be potentially life-threatening, or could lead to a permanent disability.” Her touch was light and professional as she took his hand in both of hers, scrutinizing the burnt flesh.

Richie thought about the letters carved into his back and the old scar on his chest. “Nope,” he said, with only a half-beat of hesitation. “Nothing to report, doc.”

She frowned at him. “Are you certain? When he brought you in, Officer Nell reported that you had been bleeding from your eyes. Symptoms like that are usually indicative of a more serious underlying condition. Hemophilia, lacrimal sac tumors, overexposure to magic, hypertension — all of these are dangerous conditions that require medical attention.”

Richie shook his head, glad that he had taken the time to wash his face in the hours he’d spent stuck in the waiting room. “I got some blood on my face during the uh, the fight,” he lied. “Must’ve looked pretty gruesome, huh? No blood in my eyes though, I’m not a B-horror movie extra.”

Doctor Trishell looked at him carefully, and Richie met her gaze. He conjured up every scrap of innocence he had, and at last the doctor bent back over his hand. “Alright then,” she said. “Well, we can get your burn in better shape, at least. After that, unfortunately, we’re going to have to figure something out. We can’t send you home, because legally we need to release you into the custody of an adult, but—”

“Why can’t I go home?” Richie interrupted. “I can take care of myself, doc. My parents are gone all the time, it’s no big deal.”

This statement did not seem to reassure Doctor Trishell. If anything, she appeared more uneasy. “That’s the law we’re working under,” she said. “Maybe you are home alone often, but a child under the age of eighteen requires supervision. Particularly after a traumatic event like the one you experienced. Do you have any other family in town? Any family friends that might be able to help out?”

Richie was silent. The only family he knew about was Aunt Jaqueline in Nebraska. Wentworth’s parents had passed away before Richie’s birth, and Maggie had a thin but cordial relationship with her parents, who lived down in New Mexico. Richie had only met them a handful of times, during uncomfortable holiday trips when Maggie would order him, with no good specifics, to “behave.” She herself spent most of her time staring vaguely at the opposite wall while her parents chattered away over the dining room table.

“If not,” Doctor Trishell continued. “We may be able to find some folks to place you with. Derry isn’t a big town, but there is an existing foster system in place, and short-term placements aren’t as uncommon as you might—"

Panic the size of a softball wedged itself into Richie’s windpipe. They were going to stick him in a  _ foster home? _ “Reverend Uris,” he blurted out.

“Pardon?”

“Donald Uris,” Richie said. “And— and his wife, Andrea. They’d be able to take me in until I could call my parents.” At least, he hoped they could. He was uncomfortable with putting Stan’s parents on the spot like that, but he’d been going over for family dinner night at the Uris household for years. They’d always seemed to like him, right? He knew Andrea in particular had a soft spot for him; she was always piling his plates with extra food, saying “you’re much too skinny, Richard” like they were the goddamn Brady Bunch, and asking him how school was treating him. Maybe that was how all moms acted, and maybe it was a jump to go from a second serving now and then to asking the Urises to be legally responsible for him for the next however-long, but Richie didn’t know what else to do. 

“The Urises could take me,” Richie repeated, partially to the doctor and partially to himself.

Doctor Trishell stood from her stool and moved to the cabinets set above the sink on the other side of the exam room. “Okay,” she said, taking down an assortment of supplies in white, sterile packages. “I’ll have a nurse give them a call while we get your hand sorted out. Do you know their number?”

“Yeah,” Richie said, and that was how he found himself standing with Doctor Trishell and Officer Nell outside the big, sliding glass doors of the Emergency Department, watching the Uris’ beat-up Chevrolet Chevette pull into the hospital parking lot. Richie could see a mop of blond curls in the backseat, and, sure enough, as soon as the Chevette had stopped at the curb, one of the doors flew open and Stan Uris charged out.

“You  _ asshole! _ ” he shouted.

Richie heard a faint cry of “Stanley, language!” from the driver’s seat before Stan was stampeding towards him. Stan slowed before he reached Richie, but not by much, and Richie felt the air leave his lungs as Stan crashed into him. The bruises on his chest sang with pain, but for once, Richie didn’t care. Stan’s arms wrapped around him, strong and familiar, and Richie didn’t hesitate to melt himself into Stan’s embrace. His own arms came up to return the hug, and he pressed his forehead into the juncture of Stan’s shoulder. It was an awkward position — Richie was taller than Stan, and he had to curl forward, his back hunched in order to make himself fit, but Richie didn’t mind. Stan was warm and steady, and the comforting smell of him, like laundry detergent and the dusty corners of Don’s synagogue, made Richie want to fold himself into the circle of Stan’s arms and never come out again.

After a moment of standing, leaning against one another, Stan spoke into Richie’s hair. “I leave you alone,” he said, and his voice vibrated through his chest. Richie could feel it under his forehead. “For  _ five goddamn minutes _ , and—”

Richie laughed wetly. He clung to Stan for a moment longer then stepped back, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, chuckling. “Sorry about that. But hey, on the bright side, I think Bill and I are friends again.” 

Stan looked at him, confused. Off to the side, Richie could see Don and Andrea Uris hurrying up the walk towards the Emergency Department. When they were several feet away, Officer Nell stepped forward to usher them into a private discussion. In a hushed tone, one eye on the group of adults holding their own quiet conference, Richie ran Stan through an abbreviated summary of what had happened after he and Eddie had left earlier that day. 

When he’d finished, Stan leaned his shoulder against Richie’s, letting their combined warmth mingle through the fabric of Stan’s button-down and Richie’s faded T-shirt. “Hockstetter. That’s who you were on the phone with,” Stan said, after a pause.

Richie allowed his fingers to tangle in the hem of Stan’s shirt. “Yeah,” he admitted.

Stan remained silent for another long stretch. His weight pressed against Richie’s side like an anchor. “I didn’t realize,” he said. The words were nearly a whisper lost underneath the hospital doors swishing open and shut several yards away. “I—your parents weren’t coming home, were they? I knew you were on the phone with someone, and I left you alone.”

“You didn’t know,” Richie said, faltering. “You couldn’t have known.” He tried to sound reassuring, but he wasn’t sure that he hit the mark.

“You had  _ just _ told me!” Stan said. His weight began to pull away from Richie, but Richie used his grip on Stan’s shirt to yank him back against his shoulder. Stan huffed angrily. “Like, two minutes before, you  _ told  _ me that Bowers and someone else knew. Of course I should’ve fucking known.”

“Hey,” Richie said, frowning at him. “Don’t underestimate my ability to lie. I was a good actor.”

“You’re a shitty actor,” Stan snapped. “We all know it.”

“Eddie’s mom doesn’t think so. You know she asked me to role play last week?”

Stan ignored him. He stared at the ground, and Richie was horrified to see that his eyes were wet and shiny under the hospital’s sodium lights. “I should’ve known,” he said again, a catch in his voice. “And I didn’t, and now we’re at the hospital.  _ Jesus. _ ”

Richie jabbed his finger into Stan’s ribs. “Quit it,” he said sternly. “One, I’m a great actor, fuck you. And two, what were you supposed to do? You can’t stay with me every hour of the day, Staniel. You’re being ridiculous.”

Stan didn’t respond. He bit his lip instead, half-turning his face away from Richie so that shadows were cast into the hollows of his cheeks and jaw. “I fucked up,” he said, no louder than a breath. “I fucked up and look what happened. I’m supposed to protect you, Rich.”

A desperate feeling welled up in Richie’s stomach. “Stan,” he said. He clamped down on the urge to whip out his Southern Belle’s voice. Southern Belle might be able to make a good chuck, but Stan didn’t need to hear Southern Belle right now. “Stan,” Richie repeated instead, and he let go of Stan’s shirt long enough to take Stan by the shoulder and turn him so they were face-to-face. “What’d we just talk about earlier?” he said. “Your job is to be my  _ friend _ , you dick, not my nanny. You don’t gotta treat me like something breakable.”

“I don’t think you’re breakable,” Stan muttered to his shoes.

“I know that,” Richie said. “But this isn’t on you, alright?” He paused, hesitating. “It—this’ll sound weird, but I think it needed to happen. It’s done. The police are on it now, hopefully. There’s no way Hockstetter can get near me again, after everything. I gave my statement to the coppers, and Hockstetter didn’t even do anything this time. Bill showed up like some crazy vigilante before he could.” 

Stan’s expression was still so goddamn dejected, and Richie prodded his shoulder. “Hey. It wasn’t your fault,” he told him.

“Maybe,” Stan said uncertainly. He wiped a hand across his face, under his eyes, and Richie was tactful enough not to mention it. “I still shouldn’t have left you alone,” he repeated.

“And take away Bill’s big entrance? That’s probably the most fun he’s had in years,” Richie joked. “You know how he loves the dramatics.”

That got a smile, however small, and at last Stan lifted his eyes to Richie’s. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m supposed to watch out for you. I should’ve been there, and I wasn’t.”

Richie slung his arm across Stan’s shoulders. “Stan,” he said. “You’ve never  _ not _ been there, you asshole.”

“You’re an asshole,” Stan muttered, but he was smiling again. 

“Well, that’s old news,” Richie said, waving a hand. “I’ve already put that on my business cards. Right underneath the letterhead. Is that what it’s called? Whatever. It reads: ‘Richie Tozier, professional asshole, please return to Stanley Uris if found.”

“Oh god no,” Stan groaned. “If someone finds you, they’re stuck with you. I’m not picking you up like I’m a goddamn delivery service.”

_ (“I think that when I’m done with you, I’ll stick you in that fridge and see what sort of sounds you make. What do you say, Fuckdoll?”) _

Richie shivered.

Stan’s fingers touched Richie’s arm, and Richie glanced down at him. Stan was staring at him intently, his brown eyes unfathomable. “Rich?” he said. “I’m sorry, it was a joke. A stupid joke.”

_ (“Think you can last longer than Mrs. Engstroms’ puppy?”) _

“Yeah,” Richie said. “I— yeah, no worries, Stanny. I’m fine. Check it out, the doc fixed my hand up and everything.” He held out his bandaged palm and grinned. “It’s so gross. Apparently, it got infected, so she gave me a bottle of the  _ biggest pills _ holy shit, they’re the size of horse tranquilizers. But she says I got lucky, she almost wanted to do an eskimo-tomy or something—”

“An escharotomy?” Stan demanded, and Richie rolled his eyes.

“Jesus, of course you know what that is. Yeah, one of those, but—”

“Holy shit, Richie! Those are supposed to be for severe burns!”

Richie brushed that away. “I mean, yeah, but she didn’t have to do it, so it’s fine. And she gave me this shot in the pad of my thumb, so I can’t feel jack shit with that hand right now anyway. See?” He flopped his hand through the air in front of Stan’s face like a landed fish.

Stan grabbed his forearm and forced it back down. “Dont— oh my god, you idiot,” he said. “You know you’re supposed to let injuries  _ rest _ , right?” Richie made a face, and Stan sighed. “Did she fix up everything else?” he asked. “It’s good they didn’t need to keep you overnight.”

“What do you mean, ‘fix up everything else?’” Richie said, puzzled.

“I don’t know, all that junk you wouldn’t tell me about yesterday that had you limping everywhere,” Stan said.

“Oh, ah, that stuff wasn’t that bad anyway,” Richie said.

Stan frowned at him. “You’re a terrible liar, Rich. Hasn’t changed in the past few hours.”

Richie fidgeted, scowling down at the pavement. “Whatever,” he said. “I guess you’d find out anyway. They couldn’t treat me, alright? They need my parents’ permission or some bullshit to treat anything that’s not super serious. That’s why they had to call your parents. Mine are MIA somewhere, and they’ve gotta give me over to an adult or else I guess the police would have to find someplace to stick me.”

Stan didn’t say anything. When Richie peeked over at him, he saw that Stan’s jaw was clenched up tight. “Gotcha,” Stan said at last. “Well, you’re always welcome at our house.”

Richie shifted, uncomfortable. The statement was oddly stiff, and he wasn’t sure how to respond. Was Stan mad at him for dragging Stan’s parents into the middle of this mess? 

“Uh, thanks,” he said, “I— it was just sort of a knee-jerk response when they asked me, but I’m sure your parents can say no, if you guys don’t—”

“Richie,” Stan interrupted. “Have I ever told you that you have really shitty parents? I mean  _ really _ shitty.” He paused. “I think I might hate them,” he said.

Richie blinked at him. “Oh,” he said.

Footsteps on the pavement announced the approach of the adults. Officer Nell was in the lead, followed by Doctor Trishell. Donald Uris was next, easily recognizable due to his staggering height – at six-four, he was one of the tallest people that Richie had ever met. His reddish hair, thinning on the pate of his head, was swept back from his temples, and the laugh-lines around his mouth were tugged down into a small frown. Behind him was his wife, Andrea, and the mismatch between the two was nearly comical: while Don towered over the others, and usually did in any crowd, Andrea was a short woman. Wearing heels, she was lucky to clear Richie’s shoulders.

When Andrea caught sight of Richie, she forced her way past the others to reach him first, her curly hair flying behind her. As she pulled Richie into an enveloping hug, her scent – spicy, like cloves and cinnamon – and her crushing grip made Richie suck in a strangled gasp. 

“Are you alright?” she asked him, drawing away from him but keeping her small hands on his shoulders. She needed to tip her head back in order to scan his face. Her expression was thunderous as she took in his scattering of bruises.

“Oh, I’m just fine, dearie,” Richie quavered, using his Grannie Grunt voice. “You’re so sweet for asking, but these old bones are tougher than they look. Just give me some milk of magnesia and I’ll be spryer than a rabbit in the springtime!”

Mrs. Uris shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “Officer Nell told us a bit about this awful trouble you’re mixed up in, and it doesn’t sound like anyone could be ‘just fine’ after something like that.”

Richie dropped her a wink, sliding seamlessly from Grannie Grunt into a passable Humphrey Bogart impression. “But you shee, shweetheart, I’m not just anybody,” he said.

Don Uris clapped him on the shoulder. “Be that as it may, we agree that it’s best if you come home with us for the next few days.”

“Absolutely,” Andrea said. “We have an extra mattress and frame stored up in the attic, so we can set that up in Stanley’s room for you. It’s very comfortable.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that,” Richie muttered, embarrassed. “I can just crash on the couch, it’s no problem, I’m sure Stan doesn’t want—”

“That sounds great, Mom,” Stan interrupted. “I’ll help you set it up.”

“No, really, you don’t have to—” Richie tried.

“I always wanted to use that mattress more,” Don mused. “It always felt like such a waste to only use it once or twice a year.”

Richie was overwhelmed.  _ What the fuck _ , he thought to himself, looking between the three Urises. Weirdly, he almost felt like crying again, but he forced the tears away. Jesus, he’d cried enough over the past few days. “I— uh ,” he said, “um, well. Thank you.”

Andrea smiled at him, and Don squeezed his shoulder. 

“Alright, folks,” Officer Nell said. “You can get on out of here for now. I’ll be in touch over the next few days to sort out our next steps. Hopefully, we’ll be hearing from Mr. and Mrs. Tozier before too long, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Stan glared at the ground.

“Richard?” Officer Nell said. “Doctor Trishell here tells me that you need to come back in three or four days to get that hand checked. You got that?”

“Yessir,” Richie said.

“We’ll take care of it,” Don promised.

“Good,” Officer Nell said. “Get on out of here then.” He shared a weighted glance with Mr. and Mrs. Uris before turning back towards the emergency room entrance. Dr. Trishell fell in beside him and the two of them disappeared through the sliding glass doors, their heads bent close together.

~

“You guys really don’t have to do this,” Richie said again, watching as Stan and Andrea fitted a sheet over the mattress that Don had hauled down from the Uris’ tiny attic.

“Nonsense,” Andrea said briskly. She disappeared out into the hall and came back a moment later carrying a large, fluffy duvet. “It’s no trouble at all, Richie, we’re happy to have you. Now stop trying to blend in with the wallpaper.”

Richie straightened, grimacing.

“Mom,” Stan complained. “You’re making him uncomfortable.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Andrea repeated. She handed Stan one edge of the duvet, and together they tucked the corners down. Andrea brushed off her hands and stood back, satisfied. “Do you need anything else, ahuv?” she asked Richie. “We have some more pillows in the downstairs closet if you need them.”

“No, this is great, Mrs. U,” Richie said. “Really, thank you again.”

Andrea waved away his gratitude. “You’re welcome always, Richie. We’re just happy that you called us so that we could help.” She smiled at him, a smile that reached all the way up her cheeks and made the crow’s feet around her eyes deepen. Richie couldn’t help but return it. “If you boys are all set up here, I’m going to go downstairs to start on dinner. How does pot roast sound to everyone?”

“That sounds great, Mom,” Stan said. Richie nodded in the background.

“Holler if you need anything,” Andrea said. 

“We will,” Stan promised.

Andrea fixed him with a stern look. “No rough-housing or anything like that tonight. Richie needs his rest, I’m sure he’s exhausted.” 

“Yeah, no problem.”

“And Stanley, will you show him where the towels are if he wants a shower?”

“I got it, Mom!” Stan said. His voice was the annoyed whine that only teenagers were capable of. “We’re fine!”

“Oh, alright, alright. Remember to come down for food in an hour or so,” she said. She bustled out, closing the door to Stan’s room behind her.

Without her presence, the room seemed to grow smaller. Richie glanced around, taking in the familiar pictures of birds pinned up on the far wall. There was a poster for  _ I Was a Teenage Werewolf _ above the desk — Stan had fought his parents for a week before they’d let him hang it. He and Andrea had erected the cot in the space beside the wardrobe, and Richie perched on the duvet, smoothing his fingers over the fabric. “When do you think we’ll hear from Bill?” he asked into the quiet.

Stan pulled out his desk chair and sat, clasping his hands neatly between his knees. “I don’t know,” he said. “We could try calling later tonight, if you want. And if he doesn’t answer, we can go over tomorrow to check on him.”

“Good,” Richie nodded. Silence fell again between them.

“Do… do you want to talk about it?” Stan asked after a moment, and Richie let out a bark of humorless laughter.

“To be honest, Stan-the-Man? I think I’d rather pull out my own teeth just about now. I already gave a statement to Officer Nell earlier, and I couldn’t even tell him the whole story.” He tapped the left side of his chest where his scar lay.

Stan leaned forward. “What did you tell him?” he asked.

“Ah, basically the truth,” Richie said. “I had to leave out why Hockstetter was so interested in fucking with me, but he’s insane so I don’t think Officer Nell figured he needed much of a reason.”

He hadn’t told Officer Nell  _ everything _ that had happened in the dump, of course. Richie closed his eyes. He could feel hands in his hair and the awful stretch of his jaw, the rough denim of Hockstetter’s jeans as Richie held onto him for balance. No. Officer Nell didn’t need to know about that. Nobody needed to know about that.

“Hockstetter’s batshit,” Stan agreed. “Do you know how he figured it out? What happened? How did he know?”

Richie spread his palms, the bandage over his right hand a stark white, and shrugged. God, but he was tired. It was early evening, but Richie thought that if he laid down for longer than a few seconds, he would be out like a light. “Who knows?” he said. “I must’ve slipped somehow. Up until recently, the only people who knew were you and my parents, and I don’t think my parents have been itching to blab about their cursed offspring.”

Stan snorted. “No. I guess not.” He used his feet to roll his chair back and forth, then stopped. “Do you think he’ll go to prison?” he asked. “I mean, that’s assault at the very least. Two counts, with both you and Bill. Not to mention breaking and entering, I mean—”

“Yeah, maybe,” Richie interrupted. He thought about Hockstetter’s fridge, somewhere out in the Barrens with the rotting remains of animals scattered in the surrounding brush. He thought about what he had told Officer Nell while he was giving the man his statement, sitting in a hard, plastic chair in an unused office at the hospital. 

He stood. The walls of Stan’s room seemed to press in around him. “Say, how about that shower? Is it still on the table?”

Stan looked up at him, surprised at the abrupt change of direction. “I— yeah, of course. Here, let me show you where everything is.”

He led Richie out into the hallway. The Uris household was a small but cozy two-story, with walls painted a pale blue and thinning carpeting lining the floors. Stan’s bedroom was upstairs, along with a small bathroom and Don’s office. From downstairs came the heady smells of sautéing garlic and spices, and Richie could hear Andrea’s faint voice, humming as she cooked. 

Stan opened the linen closet and pulled out a couple of thick towels. “Here,” he said. “There’s shampoo and soap and everything in the bathroom already. You can just use mine for now.”

“Thanks,” Richie said. He took the towels, balancing them on his uninjured hand. “I’ll just, uh. Yeah.”

“Okay,” Stan said.

Richie retreated into the bathroom and shut the door behind himself. He leaned

against it, letting out a tense breath.  _ Get it together _ , he told himself.  _ Or can’t you have a conversation like a goddamned normal person anymore? _

He’d felt… off, ever since he’d entered the Uris household. Every time he opened his mouth, the words came out wrong. They were too stilted, too plastic. For once, he didn’t want to talk, and Stan was the one trying to initiate a conversation. It was like living in an upside-down reality. Stan wanted to ask him about Hockstetter, about Bowers and the police and everything, that much was obvious. He’d held back, but it was only a matter of time before his curiosity overwhelmed his politeness.

Richie didn’t want to give him any answers. The events of the past few days pressed against him like hot smoke. Richie didn’t want to wade further into those smothering, choking clouds, sucking toxins into his lungs. He wanted to move forwards, to break into fresh air and put all of those memories behind him. They’d happened. He couldn’t change that. All he could do was forget them and move on. If he was dragging everything out into the stark light of Stan’s dissecting gaze, that was the goddamn  _ opposite _ of moving on.

He sighed and bent down to pull of his shoes and socks. Stan was persistent, but he’d be respectful if Richie told him to mind his own business. He’d be hurt, probably, but Richie would make it up to him. Richie would risk a bit of sulking from Stan if it meant they could just have done with it and start acting normal again. He grabbed the neck of his shirt and pulled it over his head, careful as the bruises across his ribs stretched and complained. In the mirror over the sink, Richie could see his back, the scrawling letters over his shoulders and the bruises that littered his skin like candy wrappers at a fairground. He scowled at his reflection. Maybe a steaming shower would help to wash away the strange mood that he was stuck in.

He was just reaching for the button of his jeans when a knock came at the door. “Don’t come in!” Richie shouted. He grabbed for his shirt, ready to slip it back on and see who it was, when the door cracked open before he could slam it closed.

Stan stood in the hallway outside. “I thought you could use some clean clothes—” he began.

He stopped. His words died away into silence. His eyes traveled up Richie’s bare chest and stomach, flitting from Richie’s swollen right hip to the marred skin across one collarbone like a bird hopping between branches. Horror dawned across his face, draining the color from his cheeks as his gaze fixed on the large, misshapen bruise that covered the left side of Richie’s ribs with a riot of mottled blue and sickly red. 

Richie yanked his shirt over his head. “Fucking hell, Stan!” he said. “I told you not to come in, what happened to personal privacy?”

Stan didn’t move. “I-I, I thought you told me to come in,” he said, stumbling over the words. His hands, which Richie realized were clutching a pair of clean sweatpants and a fresh shirt, lowered to his sides.

“Well, I didn’t,” Richie snapped.

“I… I’m sorry,” Stan said. His mouth opened, then shut. He placed the clothes on the edge of the sink and came into the bathroom, pulling the door partially closed behind him. “Richie, what—? Did you tell the doctor about this?” he whispered.

Richie stepped back from him. “It’s just a couple of bruises,” he said.

“Did Hockstetter and Bowers do that?” Stan demanded. He answered himself before Richie could reply. “Of course they did, what am I even saying?”

“It was a couple of days ago. I’m fine now,” Richie said.

Stan stared at him. “Are you out of your mind?” he asked. “Rich, you need to go back to the doctor! How badly are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Richie repeated. “Stop throwing a fit over it, Jesus. It’s not that big of a thing.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, resisting the urge to cross his arms defensively over his chest.

“It  _ is _ that big of a thing!” Stan insisted. He scrubbed a hand through his curly hair, sounding haggard. “God, Rich, I’m so tired of you pretending that you’re not hurt! You can’t— I wish you would stop underplaying everything! Those looked bad, and I mean really bad. Is anything broken?”

“No,” Richie said shortly. “It’s fine, Stan. You’re overreacting.”

“Richie, please,” Stan said. He reached for the bottom of Richie’s shirt. “At least let me take a look. What if something is seriously wrong?”

Richie knocked his hands away. “I told you, I’m fine!” he repeated. He tried to laugh but the sound echoed gratingly off the bathroom walls, so he stopped. “Besides, what are you gonna do, Stan? Kiss them better? Unless you went and became a doctor when I wasn’t paying attention?”

“You’re being a dick,” Stan said, glaring at him. “I don’t need to wake up in the middle of the night to find you dead on the floor next to me because you had internal bleeding and didn’t tell anybody!” He reached again, and again Richie brushed off his hands, withdrawing farther into the bathroom to get out of range.

“I’m not bleeding out, you idiot,” Richie said. “Don’t you think I would’ve noticed that?”

“No!” Stan said in an angry hiss. “No, because you apparently have zero self-awareness or self-preservation skills!” For a third time, he reached out, and for a third time, Richie blocked him. This time however, Stan grabbed his wrist before he could duck away.

A horrible realization hit Richie in that instant. He’d retreated fully into the bathroom, trapping himself between the toilet and the sink. There was nowhere left for him to go. He couldn’t reach the door without knocking into Stan, and he couldn’t step backwards without hitting his shoulders against the wall. Stan had herded him into the corner.

A sudden swell of panic lodged in his throat. His mouth felt dry and cracked. “Wait,” he told Stan, but his voice was weak and Stan didn’t hear. He could move, he  _ knew _ he could move. Of course he could move. But his muscles seemed to have frozen, and he could smell cigarette smoke and burnt flesh in his nose.

_ (“Was I not specific enough? Don’t move, Trashmouth.”) _

Stan didn’t let go of his wrist. “Rich, please. I promise I’m not going to judge you or whatever. You don’t even have to do anything. You can just stand still while I check you over.”

_ (“Stay still,” Hockstetter had giggled. “Aren’t you pretty on your knees?”) _

He grabbed once more for the hem of Richie’s shirt, and Richie’s own hand shot out to grip Stan’s arm.

“Stan,  _ stop _ ,” he gasped, and Stan’s gaze flicked up to meet his own.

“Richie?” he asked. He sounded uncertain for the first time.

_ (“On your hands and knees,” Bowers had said, smiling, and then his boot had snapped Richie’s head to the side and there were fireworks in Richie’s eyes) _

Richie wrestled his arm out of Stan’s hold. His back hit the tiled wall between the sink and the toilet. Memories swarmed like buzzing gnats inside him, and he closed his eyes to shove them away. He saw a glimpse of Bowers’ sinewy bicep, arm upraised with the crowbar clutched in his hand. He saw the white flash of Hockstetter’s glassy, too-wide eyes, and the skin of Bill’s throat bulging out around his constricting fingers.

Richie dug his nails into his unburnt palm.  _ It’s over _ , he told himself faintly.  _ You’re not there anymore, asshole, calm the fuck down _ . 

_ (“Don’t worry, Fuckdoll. You’re just too goddamn fun when you’re all freaked out!”)  _

He inhaled a shallow, shaky sip of air, fighting the iron bands that seemed to have clamped themselves around his ribs.

A tentative hand touched the knee of his jeans, and Richie opened his eyes. Somehow, he’d ended up on the floor, crammed into the small gap between the toilet and the sink. Cold porcelain pressed against his side.

Stan was crouched in front of him. His bare feet were inches from Richie’s own. “Richie?” he asked, and his voice was smaller than Richie would’ve believed. Stan wasn’t supposed to sound small. This was Stanley Uris, Stan-the-Man-with-a-Plan Uris. The most mature and competent kid Richie knew.

He looked very young, in this moment. Like all of them, he’d grown out of his baby fat years ago. Adolescence had lent him a certain gawkiness — he was nowhere near as gangly as Richie himself, but as he knelt there, it struck Richie how knobby Stan’s elbows were, how his hands still appeared too big for his body. There was a shadow of fuzz around Stan’s chin, the first hints of the facial hair Stan would have to shave when he grew older.

But when Richie looked into Stan’s face, he didn’t see a teenager. He saw the kid who’d sat next to Richie in fourth grade with his bird book squared tidily on his desk. He saw the kid who’d organized his folders by color and size by the time he was nine and snapped at Richie whenever he moved one. He saw the kid who’d laid out a seven-point-plan every year at Halloween, determined to hit all the best houses for trick-or-treating. 

The kid who, despite Richie’s best efforts, had seen through every lie Richie’d thrown at him. The kid who had yanked him into a hug on a brown autumn lawn, with the mess of Bill’s thirteenth birthday party left in the house behind them, and refused to let Richie pull away.

Now, Stan seemed… lost. Unmoored. His expression was scared, and Richie couldn’t stand it. He didn’t want that expression on Stan’s face, ever. It made a painful unhappiness well up in Richie’s throat. Stan shouldn’t be that miserable, not for Richie or anyone else, and especially not while they were both on the floor of some bathroom like a bad punchline. Richie needed it gone. He’d make sure it was gone.

He drew in a shuddering breath, grounding himself against the hard tiles beneath his hands, and conjured up the cockiest grin that he could manage. “Sorry,” he rasped. “Don’t look so worried, Stanny. I was just remembering how disappointed Eddie’s mom is gonna be when I can’t show up tonight.”

Stan jerked back, staring at him.

Richie held his gaze.

The noise of Andrea’s humming permeated through the bathroom floor to fill the space between them.

A smile twitched up the corner of Stan’s mouth. He let out a little huff of air – a startled, unintentional sound – and Richie couldn’t contain himself. A snort escaped him. Then Stan was giggling, and Richie was giggling too, and then both of them had burst into raucous, cackling laughter. Richie wrapped an arm around his chest, whooping loudly, while across from him, Stan buried his face in his hands, teams streaming from his eyes as he tried to muffle his own laughter in the sleeves of his shirt.

“Boys!” they heard Andrea shout from downstairs. “Please, at least  _ try _ to behave!”

But her request only made them laugh harder. If the laughter was a little forced, a little  _ too _ exuberant, then neither boy was willing to mention it.

At last, Stan wiped at his cheeks, letting out tiny hiccups as he got himself under control. Richie had bitten down on the knuckles of his uninjured hand, snickering helplessly. His ribs ached, but for once it wasn’t from the bruises that Bowers and Hockstetter had given him. It was a clean ache, the kind that came from muscles too-tired from laughing.

“Beep beep,” Stan said, but he was smiling as he climbed to his feet and held out a hand for Richie to take. Richie allowed Stan to support him back to standing.

“I’m telling you, she’s gonna be devastated,” Richie said. “So, can I shower? Or, like—”

Stan didn’t let him finish. He stepped forward, quick and graceful as anything, and hugged Richie fiercely. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered. “I’m really fucking glad you’re my friend, Rich.”

Richie blinked. He hardly had time to register the words before Stan was releasing him, leaning against the sink and crossing his arms to survey Richie with an unreadable expression.

“I, uh…” Richie said, searching for something to say. His face felt warm, and he swallowed down the emotions that rose up in his throat. “Did that mean, like… you want to shower with me? ‘Cause I don’t know if we’re there yet, Stanley, that’s more of a third-date thing—”

“Richie,” Stan said, and there it was. The tone that Richie dreaded. It was so goddamn  _ adult _ . “You know we need to patch you up, right?”

Richie tried and failed to hold Stan’s gaze. He slumped against the counter instead, rubbing the fingers of his left hand against the bandage that covered his right. “The doc already did that,” he argued, with words that lacked conviction.

Stan pinned him with a look that was at once exasperated, fond, and worried. “Yeah, and I gather that she missed a few spots.”

“They’re— they’re bruises, Stan! What’re you gonna do about bruises, huh?”

“That’s it? Then why are there bloodstains on the back of your shirt?” Stan asked dryly.

“Fuck,” Richie muttered.

“C’mon, Rich,” Stan said. “Either I look, or I go call my mom and she does.”

“No!” Richie said, blanching. The thought of Andrea seeing what was written across his shoulders made bitter saliva flood his mouth. “Definitely not your mom, Jesus. Your parents are already doing enough for me.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, you’re not burdening us or whatever the fuck— Okay. One battle at a time,” Stan said, shaking his head. “If not her, then does that mean you’re going to let me help?”

Richie chewed on the inside of his cheek, glaring at the floor.

“Rich,” Stan said, and his voice was gentler now. “You know I won’t order you to do anything, right? I’m not going to make you sit while I check you out. It’s still your decision. But I’m worried about you. Please. I just want to help.”

Richie jerked his eyes up, still not meeting Stan’s gaze but hovering somewhere in the vicinity. He scowled in the direction of Stan’s solar plexus. “I know that,” he said, even as he repeated those words to himself, clutching at them like a child with a stuffed toy. “It’s— I mean— like, do you even know anything about first aid?”

Stan flushed. “Not a whole lot, but—”

“Exactly,” Richie interrupted him. “No offense, Stan-My-Man, but I don’t think you can put on a band aid any better than I can. So, it’s fine. I can handle it.”

Stan didn’t reply for several moments. He tapped his fingers against the bicep of his opposite arm, biting his bottom lip as if in thought. Richie watched him, waiting for him to give in to Richie’s logic.

At last, Stan lifted his head. “Alright,” he said, and Richie gave a smug grin, tasting victory. “I probably can’t do much,” Stan admitted. He paused. A small smile touched his lips, and Richie felt his own begin to slip uncertainly. “But we both know someone who does know a shit ton about medicine.”

Richie stared at him, and this time, he didn’t laugh. “Stan,” he said. “No. Absolutely not.”

Stan raised his eyebrows. “Would you rather it be my mom?”

Richie looked at him, at the determined jut of his jaw. There was an iron glint in Stan’s eye, the glint of a chess player who has outmaneuvered his opponent in a difficult match. He didn’t look like his twelve-year-old self anymore; he looked ten years older than he was, already confident in his ability to affect the world.

Richie wasn’t sure whether to be proud or disgusted.

“Fine,” he said grudgingly. “Fucking— fine. It’s not like he’ll be able to come over anyway. His mom’s probably nailed bars over his window by this point.”

Stan shrugged and opened the bathroom door. “Maybe,” he said. “Let me worry about that. I’ll get out of your way so you can shower.”

“Fucking finally,” Richie said, and shut the door in Stan’s face.

~

Twenty minutes later, as water was still dripping from the ends of Richie’s curly hair to dampen the collar of Stan’s borrowed shirt, a tapping came at Stan’s bedroom window. Stan stood from his bed. Richie, sitting in Stan’s desk chair, swiveled in his seat to watch as Stan unlatched the window and slid it open.

Eddie Kasprak stuck his head inside. “Hey, guys,” he said.

Richie gave him a half-hearted wave.

“Thanks for coming over,” Stan said. He opened the window wider so that Eddie could climb inside. “You got here faster than I expected. How’d you get away from your mom?”

Eddie’s head disappeared from the window. Despite himself, Richie leaned over just in time to see Eddie clinging to the thick, branching limb of the oak tree that grew beside Stan’s house before Eddie was squeezing himself over the windowsill and landing on Stan’s carpet. “It’s Saturday night,” he explained, dusting off his slacks. “Mom always invites her friend over so they can drink wine and watch  _ The Price is Right _ and  _ Days of Our Lives _ . I just snuck out my window, it was pretty easy. They’re hammered.”

_ “ _ I know how to give your mom the days of her _ —” _ Richie started, grinning, a joke ready at the tip of his tongue.

“Hold on,” Eddie said, ignoring him. He reached back through the window and dragged through –  _ what the fuck _ – the most over-stuffed backpack that Richie had ever seen. Each compartment bulged outwards, and the zippers strained against the fabric. Eddie had to wrangle it through the window, grunting and sweating with effort. The whole thing probably weighed more than he did.

“What the fuck?” Richie demanded, as Eddie dropped his monster backpack onto Stan’s desk with a thud. “What’s that?”

Eddie shrugged. “Stan said you were being a stubborn dick and not telling him what was wrong, so I came prepared.”

“Did you bring any medicine or just the entire drugstore?” Richie asked, aghast.

“I need the goddamn CDC just to deal with your disease of a personality,” Eddie shot back.

“Yeah, Eddie can’t take the blame for this one,” Stan pointed out to Richie. “It’s not his fault you’re being all dramatic and secretive.”

“So you told him I was  _ dying _ ?” Richie said. “I’m pretty sure I see a catheter sticking out of the side pocket, sheesh Eds. If you’d wanted to see my dick, you could’ve just asked.”

Eddie blushed. “I didn’t bring a catheter, asshole,” he said, stabbing a finger in Richie’s direction. “Don’t give me — I mean, you might want to watch yourself before I get ideas for next time.”

Stan sat back down on his bed and drew his feet under himself. “Have you heard from Bill, yet?” he asked Eddie.

“No,” Eddie said. “Although from what you told me on the phone, he might not be able to make calls for a bit. The doctors probably told him not to talk out loud for a while, to let his throat heal. There’s a lot of delicate shit in there.”

Richie looked at his feet.

“Hey,” Stan said. He stretched to kick Richie lightly on the hip. “I’m sure he’s fine. Besides, it sounds like you guys knocked Hockstetter’s ass down pretty good in return. You want to head over to his house tomorrow to check on him?”

“Yeah,” Richie said, and cleared his throat when his voice came out rougher than he’d intended. “Let’s do that. Big Bill’s probably going crazy if he can’t yell at Georgie to keep out of his stuff.”

Eddie snickered. “I’ll see if I can sneak out again to come with you guys. Maybe my Mom’ll be too hungover to notice.”

“She can’t keep you locked up forever, right?” Stan said, and Eddie scowled, wrinkling the bandage across his nose.

“Don’t jinx it.”

Stan stood up and crossed the room so he could listen for the noises of his parents drifting up from downstairs. “You guys can use the bathroom.” he said over his shoulder. “Take your time. Dinner should be ready soon, but I can tell my mom that Richie’s asleep or something. She’ll believe that. Just try to keep the noise down, or else she’ll get suspicious.” He beckoned them out the door. Eddie went first, lugging his gigantic backpack, and Richie followed reluctantly, lingering on the hallway landing.

“I’m not gonna bite, Richie!” Eddie hissed, already inside the bathroom.

“Aw, don’t disappoint me now, Spaghetti-man!” Richie said. “You know I love a little foreplay.” He glanced at Stan, who only rolled his eyes and made a  _ get-going _ gesture. Sighing, Richie tossed him a sloppy salute. He stepped into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him as Stan headed down the stairs.

Eddie was already busy at the counter, pulling out boxes of band aids and bandages, bottles of hydrogen peroxide, sterile gauze, iodine droppers, tubes of antibiotic cream, medical tape, a needle-less syringe, several bottles of painkillers, and a jumble of other items that Richie couldn’t even recognize, much less put a name to. As the door closed, cutting off the sounds and smells of cooking from downstairs, Eddie pointed at the closed toilet seat. “Sit,” he said. 

Richie twitched, grimacing, and horror flooded Eddie’s face. “Fuck!” he whispered. “I didn’t mean that! Ignore that! I just meant, um, you can sit right there, if you want. It’ll probably be easiest for you to be there.”

Richie flapped a hand, brushing away Eddie’s misstep. “Don’t worry about it, Eds,” he said. He sat on the toilet lid. “You don’t have to act like you kicked a puppy. I’m used to it, it’s no big deal.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Eddie muttered, stacking a set of — Jesus, were those trauma shears? — next to his pile of growing medical supplies. “That’s not something anyone should have to get used to.”

Richie shrugged.

“Okay,” Eddie said, setting down his now-empty backpack. He turned to Richie with his skinny arms propped up on his hips like he was a goddamned soccer mom. “First things first, are you gonna be difficult about this or are you just going to tell me where you’re hurt? Stan told me what happened over the phone, and he also told me that you basically had a panic attack before you agreed to let us help.”

“I’m not a kindergartener, sheesh, Eds,” Richie said. “I’ll show you. And it wasn’t a  _ panic attack _ , Stan’s being dramatic. I just got freaked out for a minute.” 

“Uh huh,” Eddie said. It was clear that he wasn’t convinced. “Freaked out as in, couldn’t-breathe-and-panicking freaked out?”

“Whatever,” Richie muttered. He reached for the collar of his shirt, then paused. “Are you sure  _ you _ want to do this?” he asked Eddie instead. “‘Cause I mean, it’ll be me. Shirtless. If you’re worried you’re gonna pop a boner or anything, I’d understand. It’s a lot to take in all at once.”

“Oh my God!” Eddie said. He shoved Richie in the shoulder, glaring. The tips of his ears were red. “Your pasty-ass chest isn’t giving anyone boners, dickweed!”

“Slander,” Richie said, and didn’t say the other thing that jumped to mind, which was  _ cute cute too fucking cute _ . “I mean, it’d be okay if you did. The sight of my bare chest has stolen the hearts from girls all over town.”

“Was this before or after they screamed and ran for the hills?” Eddie said. He crossed his arms, giving Richie a pointed scowl. “You’re stalling. Don’t think I’m not noticing. Are you gonna let me see what I’m working with or not?”

“I’ll give you something to work with,” Richie said, but the jab sat flatly in his dry mouth. His hands went again to his shirt. His fingers gripped the soft cotton, and Richie felt the slashes across his back stinging.

Eddie didn’t say anything. He waited. His leg pressed against Richie’s knee, seeping warmth through the fabric.

“Fuck it,” Richie said under his breath. He tugged the shirt off over his head.

Eddie sucked in a sharp, stifled gasp. Richie didn’t look at him, instead gripping the toilet seat with brittle fingers. “Richie, you… holy shit,” Eddie managed.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Richie said. He flicked a glance down at himself before averting his eyes. It looked pretty damn bad.

“Yeah, this is why we don’t trust you with medical opinions,” Eddie said. The words were light, but the tone in which he said them was thick and low. When Richie glanced up at him, Eddie’s expression was twisted up, as though he was fighting to keep it from crumpling. “No wonder you were moving so slowly yesterday,” he murmured.

“I thought you guys didn’t notice,” Richie said. He picked at his cuticles, cleaning out the dirt, and studiously avoided making eye contact.

Eddie snorted. “Are you kidding? We noticed.”

“Oh,” Richie said.

Eddie sat down on the lip of the tub, pulling on a pair of blue, latex gloves. “Okay,” he said. “So, do you—”

“Where in the fuck did you get those?” Richie interrupted. He gestured at the gloves, not bothering to keep the incredulous grin from his face.

Eddie glared at him. “They’re like twenty cents a box at the drugstore, fucknuts. You know how much bacteria can be transferred skin-to-skin? I’m not getting all up in your business without some protection!”

“I got all up in your mom’s business last night without protection,” Richie said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Honestly, Eds, you gotta stop pitching me these low balls, you’re making it too easy.”

“If you weren’t already bruised to hell, I would punch you so hard,” Eddie snapped. “You are the worst patient.”

“Okay, okay, fine. I’m sorry. I’ll behave.”

“ _ Thank _ you,” Eddie said. “If that’s all out of your system, I’m just going to feel along the worst of the bruises, okay? Just to make sure nothing is broken. I don’t think you could have internal bleeding or anything like that, we definitely would have noticed by now.”

“Ha! Told you, Stan,” Richie said.

Eddie didn’t bother asking him to explain. He scooted forward on the lip of the tub so that he was in easy reach of Richie and caught Richie’s eye. “You good?” he asked, and all of a sudden, Richie was aware that he could feel the heat of Eddie’s body in the scant space that separated them. Their knees knocked together.

“I, uh— yeah,” Richie squeaked. Why the hell was his throat so fucking dry? “Do what you gotta do, Spaghetti-man.”

“You’ll tell me if you need to stop, right? If I’m making you uncomfortable or hurting you?” Eddie pressed.

_ Define uncomfortable _ , Richie thought wildly to himself. This close, he could see flecks of darker gold in the brown of Eddie’s irises. Eddie’s eyes were large and dark and—

_ Stop it _ , Richie told himself.  _ Stop it right the fuck now _ .

_ (“What, he’s got a fag crush?” Bowers had asked) _

“I’ll tell you,” Richie promised. He inhaled through his nose, willing his heart to stop beating so goddamn fast, but that turned out to be a  _ terrible _ idea. All he succeeded in doing was getting a good lungful of Eddie’s shampoo. It was a clean smell, somehow sweet, and it sort of made Richie want to card his fingers through Eddie’s hair.  _ Jesus Christ. _ What was wrong with him? 

“Get going Eds, or I’m gonna think you just got me here so you could get my shirt off,” he managed to say.

Eddie pursed his lips. “God, you’re impossible,” he said. He ducked his head, and his first touch landed lightly on Richie’s right shoulder.

_ (“You got a crush, Trashmouth?”) _

Richie held himself still as Eddie probed his fingers into the discolored skin across the line of Richie’s collarbone. It was how Richie imagined a massage might feel like, and Eddie was so gentle that Richie barely felt the pain of the bruise. He closed his eyes. Eddie was warm and present beside him. It made him glow with the knowledge that Eddie was so close, that if Richie wanted, he could reach out to grab Eddie’s hand, or touch his knee where it bumped against Richie’s own— 

** _Stop it. _ ** _ Right the fuck now. _ Jesus Christ. 

_ (“You got a crush, Trashmouth?”) _

Richie bit his lip and concentrated as hard as he could on a mental image of Veronica Grogan’s terrible acne breakouts.

Eddie felt down Richie’s right arm, halting when he got to Richie’s bandaged hand. His lips pressed together, but he didn’t say anything — Stan must have updated him over the phone. Instead, he leaned over Richie to start on his left arm, and if Richie had thought that things were bad before, then now they were  _ immeasurably worse _ . The tops of Eddie’s thighs were jammed against Richie’s right hip, his curly hair underneath Richie’s chin. Richie’s heart thudded. Determinedly, he wrestled his mind back to Veronica Grogan’s disgusting pores. Sometimes, when class was boring and she thought the teacher wasn’t watching, Veronica would try to pop the most irritated pimples. Richie had borne witness to this event on several occasions, and— 

“What’re these?” Eddie asked.

Richie jerked his attention back to the bathroom. “What?”

Eddie had his left wrist held loosely in one hand. When Richie focused on him, he turned Richie’s wrist over, exposing the scattering of small, circular burns that ran up the underside of Richie’s forearm.

“Oh,” Richie said. “Those. They’re not—”

“If you say ‘not as bad as they look,’ I swear to God I will strangle you with my medical tape,” Eddie threatened.

Richie slouched against the back of the toilet. “Fine,” he said. “They’re— I mean, c’mon Eds, what do you think they are? They’re cigarette burns.”

Eddie’s fingers twitched around Richie’s wrist. “Hockstetter?” he asked.

Richie looked at him, searching Eddie’s face. Eddie showed his anger differently than Stanley did. Where Stan became quiet, withdrawing into himself to nurse his rage like a sheltered fire, Eddie became loud. His movements grew bigger and less fluid. Where Stan slowed down, Eddie speeded up. Richie could see the anger now, in the color rising to Eddie’s cheeks and the outrage burning in his eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” Richie said, before he could think better of it. “Him and Bowers. I mean, technically I did it to myself, but they told me to do it so, ah—” He shut up as Eddie’s hand clenched around his wrist. “Sorry, sorry, too much information. Being quiet now.”

Eddie sat still for a long moment, taking shallow breaths through his nose. Then he stood and dug through his pile of supplies on the counter. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said, and his voice shook. Richie thought that, if Andrea hadn’t been downstairs, Eddie probably would’ve been a few hundred decibels louder. “You shouldn’t have to apologize for someone else doing… that. Christ.” He fumbled through various boxes, sending them scattering to the side. Richie saw with some surprise that his hands were trembling.

“Hey,” Richie said. His voice was soft. “Eds.” When Eddie didn’t look at him, he stood from the toilet seat and hesitated before placing a cautious hand on Eddie’s elbow. Fuck but this kid was short. “Eddie,” Richie said again, and Eddie half-turned away from him, dropping a tube of ointment. It fell to the floor and skittered away.

“You shouldn’t apologize for that,” Eddie said thickly. “They should be fucking apologizing. They should be in fucking  _ prison— _ ”

“Hey,” Richie said again. Without thinking about it, he wrapped his arms around Eddie’s bony shoulders, hugging him from behind. “I’m okay, Eds.”

“No, you’re not!” Eddie insisted. He swiped furiously at his eyes. “You’re beat all to hell! You look like you got trampled by a horse!”

“Gee, thanks,” Richie muttered, but Eddie didn’t pause.

“What the fuck are we doing, Rich? I’m not a doctor. I shouldn’t be pretending like this, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing!”

“You’re like a short little nurse, which, like, is definitely a kink somewhere—”

“What if I fuck it up worse, huh?” Eddie demanded. “We can’t even bring you to a real doctor! Nothing’s alright about this! Why the fuck didn’t the doctors or the police or anybody realize how bad off you are? How did they not notice?”

“Hey, I’m a good act—”

“No, you’re not!” Eddie interrupted him. “You’re a shit actor, Rich! Hockstetter probably got all the medical attention he fucking needed, because at least his parents are in town! How the fuck is that fair? And what if they let him go? Maybe they arrested him, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone for good! And maybe they caught him, but Bowers is still running around town somewhere! What’s stopping Bowers from doing this shit all over again?” Eddie’s words were accelerating, spitting out of him like water from a pressurized hose. Normally, Richie found it funny when Eddie got wound up. Those were the best times to call him Spaghetti-Bear and listen to the insults spew out of Eddie faster than the chatter of a veteran auctioneer. 

This wasn’t the same. Eddie’s breaths were whistling in his chest, rapid and labored. Richie could feel him shuddering.

“Eds, calm down,” Richie tried, but Eddie wasn’t listening. 

“And what if Hockstetter gets away with it?” he said. “What the fuck are we gonna do then?”

“He’s not gonna get away with it,” Richie said.

“He fucking could!” Eddie shouted. Richie winced, and hoped that Stan would have the presence of mind to drop a glass or something to cover the noise. “He fucking could, Rich! Don’t patronize me! When the fuck have things gone our way? Or  _ your _ way? Jesus, up until today, I didn’t even  _ know  _ how bad you had it!”

“Eddie, you need to—”

“How the fuck are you even trusting me to get near you right now?” Eddie gasped. “I’ve been giving you orders for fucking years without realizing, how is that okay? Oh my god. Oh my god, what have I told you to do? Have I—Jesus Christ, please, Rich, tell me— fuck, I mean, did I? How often did I do that? How are you  _ okay _ with that? I’ve been taking advantage of you for fucking  _ years  _ and I didn’t even know it!”

“You haven’t—”

“Yes, I fucking have! I fucking _know_ I have! I tell you to shut up all the time! Oh my god. How can you even be in the same _room_ as me?”

He squirmed in Richie’s arms, attempting to push Richie away, but Richie wouldn’t let him. As calmly as he could, Richie reached down to Eddie’s waist and unzipped the fanny pack strapped across his hips. He pulled out Eddie’s inhaler, uncapped it with his thumb, and held it up to Eddie’s face. “Here, Eds,” he said.

It took a moment for Eddie to realize what he was doing. When he finally got with the program, his hand closed around Richie’s wrist and he pulled the aspirator to his mouth, triggering the spray down his throat. His desperate wheezing eased. Richie lowered the aspirator and Eddie slumped against Richie’s chest, inhaling in jagged bursts.

Richie listened for any sounds from downstairs, but there was nothing. No alarms so far.

“Sorry,” Eddie muttered. His breathing had steadied. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to flip out like that. I came over to help and you’re the one making me feel better.”

“You’re a hot mess,” Richie agreed. He tightened his hold on Eddie’s shoulders, and Eddie’s own hands came up to grab Richie’s forearms. “But you know haven’t done anything wrong, right? At all. You don’t have anything to blame yourself for, stupid. I’m the guy who didn’t tell you.”

“Yeah, but, like, you couldn’t,” Eddie argued.

“I could’ve had Stan do it,” Richie said. “But I didn’t. I was always too scared to. You can’t blame yourself for acting normal, Eds. And to answer you; no. You never took advantage of me. I can’t be mad at you for something you never did, idiot.”

“But I’ve told you what to do before. I know I have.”

Richie shrugged, feeling the soft material of Eddie’s shirt rub against his skin. “Yeah, a few times. For little stuff, I guess, but I never really cared. I like hanging out with you, orders or not. And Bill and Stan too.” He grinned at Eddie, hoping for a smile and not getting one. “Point is, Eds, we could sit here and play the blame game, but I don’t think that’s gonna be too fun for anyone. You’d win anyway, because you have  _ nothing _ to feel bad about. Besides, none of that shit matters, and we’d be much better off playing something else. Like strip poker. You’re already ahead in that one anyway.”

“What are you talking about?” Eddie asked. He tilted his head, and for the first time seemed to realize that Richie’s bare chest was pressed flush against his upper back. Eddie’s face turned a bright, cherry red. He yanked at Richie’s wrists, swearing. “You goddamn animal,” he said. “Jesus Christ, are you even house trained?”

Richie burst out laughing. He let go of Eddie and, before Eddie could stop him, reached out to pinch Eddie’s cheek. “Too cute!” he crowed. “I tried to warn you, Eds, my body is a force to be reckoned with. I warned you not to underestimate it!”

“Just sit down on the— fuck, I mean — just — Jesus fucking Christ, you are the worst,” Eddie said. He batted Richie away when Richie tried to ruffle his hair, glowering. “You’d better sit the fuck back down before I jam that syringe up your ass,” he snapped instead.

Richie sat, snickering.

Eddie scrounged beneath the counter until he found the tube that he’d dropped earlier. “This is for burns,” he told Richie. He grew serious again as he retook Richie’s wrist to examine the small, circular marks that dotted his skin. “I guess I’ll just, um, spread some on and cover them with band aids, I guess.”

“You got it, Doctor K,” Richie said.

Eddie fiddled with the cap of the ointment, avoiding Richie’s gaze. “You’re really not mad at me?” he asked, in a small voice.

Richie’s throat ached. He almost slid forward again, to catch Eddie by the shoulders and pull him in close, but he held himself back. “I couldn’t be mad at you, you dipshit,” he said instead. “You’re too short to get mad at.”

Eddie flicked him on the forehead, biting his lips so that he wouldn’t smile. “Height isn’t everything, asshole,” he said. “Some of us value things like maturity.”

“Never heard of it,” Richie said dismissively. 

“I think the concept would go over your head anyway,” Eddie told him. He uncapped the ointment and set to work, and he’d used half the tube of ointment and most of a box of band aids before he was satisfied. Only once the final burn was covered did he continue feeling along Richie’s bruises, checking for fractures.

“Well,” he said when he was done. “I think you’re all in one piece, at least.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling Stan,” Richie said. “He wouldn’t believe me.”

“I wonder why,” Eddie said tartly. “You’re such an open book about yourself.”

“Words hurt, you know,” Richie sniffed.

“Yeah, keep that in mind, Trashmouth,” Eddie said. He tossed the band aid wrappers into the trash beneath the counter.

“Hey, you can’t talk to me like that! I’m traumatized!”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie replied, wincing.

Richie fidgeted on the toilet seat. “Sorry,” he said. “Too soon?”

“Little bit.”

“Gotcha. Uh, sorry. We done then, doc?” Richie started to stand up, but Eddie pressed him back down with a hand on Richie’s shoulder.

“Hold on,” he said, frowning. “Stan told me you were bleeding, Mr. Open Book. What else is wrong?”

Richie bit his lip.  _ Goddamn it, Stan _ . He’d been leaning against the back of the toilet for a reason. Eddie had been so focused on the bruises that he hadn’t bothered checking anywhere else yet. Richie’d been quietly hoping that Eddie would let him put his shirt back on without any more discussion. “I—” he began but stopped. “I don’t suppose you’d be happy if I told you it’s nothing?” he said, with a sort of amused bitterness.

“Absolutely not,” Eddie responded at once. His big, doe’s eyes were intent and full of concern. “You might be able to go so far as to say I’d be  _ un _ happy.”

“Right. Okay,” Richie said. There was a tense roiling in his stomach.

_ (“You’re just like a fucking doll aren’t you? Just a pretty doll”) _

He felt very exposed and very vulnerable, sitting there bare-chested in the cool air of the bathroom. He glanced at Eddie, who was waiting patiently for Richie to get his shit together. Even if Eddie read the word that Bowers had carved, he couldn’t know what it really meant. He couldn’t know what Hockstetter had done. He might be able to guess, and he might be suspicious, but he couldn’t  _ know _ . How could anyone?

“Okay,” Richie said again. “Just, uh. Just don’t freak out, alright?”

He stood up and turned around so that his back was to Eddie.

From behind him, there was an intake of breath, harsh but muffled as though Eddie had put his hand over his mouth. “What— holy shit, Richie,” he said. “How the fuck did— Jesus Christ, are those  _ letters? _ ” His voice rose, becoming close to a shout. “What the  _ fuck? _ ”

“Yes, this definitely counts as not freaking out,” Richie muttered. “Well done, Eds.”

“You— why didn’t you tell the doctors about this?” Eddie hissed. A fingertip grazed the skin just below the cuts, and Richie jumped in surprise. Eddie pulled his hand back at once. “Sorry,” he said.

Richie only shrugged. “Why bother? It’s not life-threatening. They wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.” He twisted his head to look at Eddie, who had his lips pursed together and a sickened expression on his ashen face.

“Some of these are pretty deep, Rich,” Eddie said. “I’ve got bandages, yeah, but I don’t think I qualify to deal with something like this. Even if I patched you up okay, you’d— these’ll leave scars. These need a professional!”

Richie nodded, hoping that his disappointment wasn’t too obvious. He’d suspected that his back would scar, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear his suspicions confirmed. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You’re probably right. But, Eds? You’re all I’ve got right now. No professional is going to see me without my parents’ permission, and who knows where they are or when they’ll be back.”

“If you showed someone,” Eddie began, but stopped himself when Richie put his hands on Eddie’s upper arms.

“Eddie,” he said, and Eddie stilled. Probably because of the shock of Richie using his full name, rather than a stupid nickname. “Please. I can’t go to a doctor. Even if they agreed to treat me — which is a pretty big if — then I’d have to take off my shirt to show them what was wrong. You know what else they’d see?”

Eddie’s gaze dropped to Richie’s chest.

“I don’t know what they’d do,” Richie said. “But I can’t imagine that it would be anything great, if a kid showed up with a curse-scar.”

Eddie bit his lip. Richie could almost see the emotions as he worked through them: understanding, anger, reluctance, fear, until he settled at last on a kind of grim determination. “I’m not going to give you stitches,” he said. “I’m sorry, Rich, but I — I don’t know how, and — I don’t want to mess anything up worse. But I have some butterfly bandages. The cuts are thin, at least, so if I use enough of them then they might be able to hold the edges of the wounds together. But I don’t know—”

“It’s perfect, Eds,” Richie told him, smiling. “I don’t know what the fuck I’d do without you.”

Pink tinged Eddie’s face. “Slowly bleed out, probably, since you’re too stubborn to let a doctor see you,” he mumbled. “Or die of a bacterial infection.”

Richie poked Eddie’s cheek with a finger. “See?” he said, as Eddie slapped his hand away. “I’d be living in total ignorance of the many painful ways I could die.”

“Are you gonna sit down and let me do this or what?” Eddie said. He made shooing motions, and Richie poked him once more, grinning, before turning to straddle the back of the toilet so that Eddie could reach his back and shoulders.

“My body is your canvas, Doctor K!” he declared.

“I’m gonna need to clean it up first,” Eddie said. “Hold on, I brought some washcloths with me.” There was the metallic rattle of the sink running, and then Richie felt Eddie’s warm presence behind him. “Okay,” Eddie said. He sounded nervous. “So, um. You’ll let me know if I hurt you, right?”

Richie gave him a backwards thumbs up. “You got it. Don’t worry though; can’t hurt worse than getting the damn things in the first place.”

“Oh, great,” Eddie said under his breath. The washcloth touched his skin, making a broad swipe across his back just under the cuts. Richie closed his eyes.

They fell silent, the only disturbances when Eddie paused to rinse out the washcloth with fresh water. He worked carefully, methodically dabbing around each letter with delicate precision. He was much more thorough than Richie had been yesterday, when he’d sponged at his own shoulder blades, trying not to twist too far for fear of stretching the cuts further. The heat of the washcloth soaked through Richie’s muscles, and he found himself relaxing despite himself. His thoughts drifted.

He could pinpoint the exact moment that Eddie figured out the word scripted across his skin. The washcloth paused in its movements, and there was a ragged noise, quickly bitten off. Richie didn’t lift his head. The two of them sat motionless for a long moment, and Richie wondered whether Eddie would say something.

He didn’t. Instead, Richie felt a touch against his skin just below the jagged  **F ** that scrawled over the edge of his left shoulder blade. It wasn’t the washcloth — it wasn’t wet enough for that — but it wasn’t Eddie’s fingertips either. Richie turned around despite himself, curious, just as Eddie jerked back. The tips of Eddie’s ears were flaming red. Richie watched as the red traveled down Eddie’s neck, suffusing his cheeks with a pink blush.

_ (“You got a crush, Trashmouth?”) _

“Eddie?” he said.

“What?” Eddie snapped.

“Did you just… kiss me?” he asked dumbly.

“No,” Eddie said. “Of course not, don’t be an idiot.”

Richie stared at him. Eddie’s skin was still a deep, impossible red. He looked as though he wanted to throw the washcloth in Richie’s face and sprint out the door. He glared at the wall rather than meeting Richie’s gaze. 

“Oh,” Richie said. “Okay.” His left shoulder seemed to burn where Eddie had touched him. “Nevermind then.” He faced forwards again and rested his chin on his crossed arms.

After a moment, the washcloth resumed its gentle ministrations.

Richie was glad that Eddie couldn’t see his expression. He allowed the tension to leave his shoulders, smiling quietly to himself, and closed his eyes once more. He felt…  _ happy _ , which was weird. Bowers was still out there, somewhere. His parents were in the wind, and he had no idea what had become of Hockstetter after the ambulance had shown up outside his house.

Yet it was enough to sit there, just he and Eddie in this small bathroom. It was enough, with the smells of Mrs. Uris’ cooking drifting under the door and Stan waiting for them downstairs. It was enough, to know that he’d see Bill tomorrow and Bill would still be  _ alive _ and his friend.

Eddie’s gentle touches brushed against his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to everyone who left kudos and reviews on this story <3 I literally cannot believe how amazing you all have been in indulging this story with me. 
> 
> I'm not gonna lie to you guys, the next chapter is gonna be a few weeks in coming. I haven't finished writing out the rough draft for it yet, so that's my bad. Writers block struck but I think I'm past it (finally). So, I'm going to set the tentative date for that chapter posting for Sunday, December 8th. I know that's kind of far away, but if I can get the chapter typed up and edited before then, I will definitely post it earlier :) I can't believe we're almost at the end!
> 
> See you all then <3


	10. Part Ten — 1991: The Derry Townhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Time to get up, ahuv,” Andrea said softly. “Officer Nell is here. He says your parents are back in town.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends! Uh. So, I feel like I have some explaining to do...
> 
> First off, I'm sorry this update was late x.x Three days delay isn't too bad, is it? But, I do have to say sorry to both Summer and aussiebornwriter. I thought for sure that I'd be able to get it out for one of your birthdays, and then I missed them both! Oi vey. Happy birthday anyway, guys!
> 
> Second off, it turns out this isn't the last chapter after all, so uhm, psych? Sorry about that... It turns out that all the loose ends you leave for yourself really do come back to bite you, and I felt like I had too much left to wrap up to do it properly in only one chapter. So, yes, I'm tacking on two more chapters after this one. They were originally ideas that I had for one-shot sequels, but in the end it made more sense just to put them in with the main story. So. Uh. Enjoy? Enjoy! As for this chapter, I've officially stared at it for so long that I can't even tell what these words are doing. I needed to post it before I went cross-eyed, so hopefully it turned out alright.
> 
> Third, thank you as always to everyone who has left kudos and reviews!! I am behind on replying to reviews, like I'm behind with EVERYTHING about this update, sheesh, but oh my goodness you guys, you have said the nicest things to me and I'm still not over it. I love you all <3
> 
> Alright, enough notes, more posting chapter, am I right?
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Mentions of violence, pretty blatant child neglect, anti-Semitism, the Richie-mandatory amount of swearing.

On Sunday morning, as April clouds stalked darkly across Derry’s east hills, Stan and Richie wheeled Stan’s bike out of the garage. Richie crammed himself to ride double on the back of Stan’s fender, and Stan fought to balance the bike as he pushed them off from the curb. A damp, cold wind whipped at their cheeks as they headed towards the Denbrough house.

“This was easier when we were smaller!” Richie shouted. He clung to Stan’s fender by the tips of his fingers.

Stan didn’t glance back. He was puffing, sweating with the effort of pedaling both of them, and he sounded breathless as he cried “lose some weight then, asshole!” over the whine of the wind.

They crested the ridge onto Witcham Street, Stan’s ribs heaving in rhythmic gasps, and tilted down the opposite side of the hill. Gravity seized hold of them. The wheels of Stan’s bike hummed, squealed, and vanished into gray blurs as the bike flew down the street. Stan shrieked. The bike wobbled beneath them, and Richie clutched at the back of Stan’s shirt, laughing at the sky and the houses that melted past them. The wind grew to a roar in their ears. Stan’s fingers clenched around his brakes, pumping, and the bike skidded sideways as the road leveled out. A line of rubber laid down behind them. For a moment, it seemed as though the Stan might lose control of the bike. The back wheel lifted. They tipped, the bike threatening to overturn, seconds away from rashing the two of them gracelessly onto the road, but Stan yanked the handlebars hard. Their weight slammed both tires back to the asphalt. Richie grabbed Stan’s shoulders with a yelp as the seat bucked beneath him, and they skidded to a stop in Bill’s driveway.

The wind died to a soft brush stroking through their hair.

“We’re never riding double again,” Stan panted.

Richie patted him on the back, grinning, and slid off the seat. “What’re you talking about, Standrew? I thought you did that on purpose.”

Stan glared at him as he put up his kickstand.

Mrs. Denbrough answered the door at their knock, and Richie doffed her an imaginary hat. “Top o’ the mornin’, young lady!” he said. “Is Master Bill accepting visitors?”

“Hello, boys,” Mrs. Denbrough said. She swept them both with a stern searchlight. Her eyes lit the bruises on Richie’s jaw, and the cracked glasses that perched on his nose. Stan stood, back straight and hands folded politely, under her examination. “I suppose I should’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Bill’s been asking after his friends all day.”

“As I expected,” Richie said. “Bill and I share a bond unlike—"

“How is he?” Stan asked. He stepped on Richie’s foot to silence him. The last thing they needed was Mrs. Denbrough kicking them indignantly off of her porch.

“He’s resting,” Mrs. Denbrough told them. Her eyes went again to the purple-dark bruising on Richie’s jaw. “What it seems like _you_ should be doing, Richard. The police told us what that boy did to you and Bill.”

Richie pushed his crooked glasses up his nose and winked. “Without checking on my best mate? Couldn’t do it.”

Mrs. Denbrough paused for a moment longer, then opened the door for them. “Don’t tire him out,” she warned. “If he starts getting overexcited, you’re going to have to leave.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Stan agreed.

“Go on, then,” she said. “He’s in his room.”

They found Bill upstairs, sitting upright in bed with his blankets pooled around his waist and wearing a faded, Yankees T-shirt as pajamas. A smile spread over his face as he saw Richie and Stan framed in the doorway, and he tossed his sketchbook onto the blankets beside him. A smear of puffy bruises formed a collar around his neck.

“Hey, Bill,” Stan said.

Bill waved and gestured the two of them to come inside.

“Boy, you look like shit, don’t you?” Richie said. 

Bill shot him the bird.

Richie snickered. He dragged Bill’s desk chair to the side of the bed, while Stan perched on the edge of the mattress near Bill’s hip.

“How are you doing?” Stan asked. This close, both he and Richie could see that the white of Bill’s right eye was stained a startling, bloody crimson.

Bill held up a finger, then leaned over and rummaged in the drawer of his night table. He emerged with a pen and a battered notebook. He flipped the notebook open, and Richie glimpsed snatches of older messages before Bill found a fresh page and began to write. When he was finished, he turned the book so that Stan and Richie could see.

_Not too bad,_ he’d written. _The doctors say that I can’t talk for the next week or two, but it could’ve been a lot worse. It’s just a lot of swelling/bruising._

The gray, milky morning light seemed to brighten. Richie’s hand unclenched from his knee, and he clapped Bill on the shoulder. “That’s our Big fucking Bill,” he exclaimed. “Not even a good choking-out can keep you down, huh?”

Stan pursed his lips at Richie, but he was smiling. “That’s really good to hear, Bill,” he said. “We tried to call you yesterday, but nobody picked up. Richie told me and Eddie what happened with Hockstetter.”

Bill grimaced. He took back his notepad and scribbled, crossed out several messages, then paused. His eyes darted once to Richie and away. At last, he handed them his new note. _Richie? You okay?_

“Fit as a well-tuned fiddle,” Richie proclaimed. Stan and Bill frowned at him. Their expressions were eerily similar, so he added, “well, I will be soon, anyway. Don’t worry about me, Bill, I’m not the one who could be an extra in _Hang ‘Em High_.”

Bill raised an eyebrow and pointed at Richie’s face, where his bruises were beginning to tinge yellow-green as they healed.

“I said _Hang ‘Em High_, not _The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly_,” Richie said, and Stan snickered.

“Glass houses, Rich. You both look like shit.”

“You keep talkin’ like that, fool, an’ I’ll make sure you join the club,” Richie said, aiming for his gruff, Mr. T. impression. His voice cracked halfway through, unable to hit such a low pitch, but he squinched his face up and mimed smacking Stan in the face to get his point across. “How’d you like a knuckle sandwich for lunch?”

“Gross,” Stan said, mildly.

Bill made a strange, coughing noise. Richie and Stan looked at him, and it took them a moment to realize that Bill was trying to laugh. Bill’s eyes were screwed shut. He cut himself off, pressing a hand to his throat, but too late to stop dewy tears from leaking from beneath his lids to cling to his eyelashes.

“Shit!” Richie said, abandoning Mr. T.

Stan gripped Bill’s knee through the blankets. “Deep breaths, Bill,” he ordered. He motioned to the glass of water sitting next to the bed. “Rich, do you want to—?”

Richie seized the glass and put a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Here,” he said. Bill reached out, and Richie helped him drink several long swallows until the pain left his face.

_Thanks,_ Bill mouthed, as Richie set down the glass.

“You dirty fucking liar,” Richie told him. “That is not ‘fine.’”

“Glass houses,” Stan muttered again.

Bill took up his pad and paper. _It **is** fine, _he wrote. _Just don’t make me laugh._

“I can’t promise anything,” Richie said loftily. “You can’t turn first-class humor like mine off and on again.”

Bill shook his head. He wrote something and showed it to Stan, who burst into giggles. Then he turned the page and wrote a new note while Richie scowled at both of them. _Hockstetter?_ read his message.

“Nothing yet, as far as I know,” Stan said. He looked at Richie. “No one from the police office has come by, anyway.”

Richie’s smile dropped. He sat back and spread his hands, feeling a heavy flutter in his stomach at the mention of Hockstetter’s name. “He got arrested,” Richie said. God, but he was tired of talking about Hockstetter. Tired of fucking _thinking_ about him. “Officer Nell called your house this morning, Stan. Your mom talked to him. I guess they arrested Hockstetter after he woke up at the hospital.”

Stan lit up. “So that’s it, then? They got him?”

Richie fidgeted. Bill’s eyes were on his, and something in that clear blue made Richie uncomfortable. He looked away. “I mean, sort of. Apparently, they still have to gather evidence and whatever else, so they still might let him go.”

Bill’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped. On his paper, he wrote **_WHAT?!?_ **in big block letters and shoved the pad towards Richie.

“I know,” Richie told him. “Right now, it’s just my word against his, since nobody else saw what happened.”

**_I SAW WHAT HAPPENED_** Bill wrote angrily. In a slightly smaller font, he wrote _fuck that. I’ll make my mom take me to the police station today to give my statement. _

“You haven’t given one?” Stan asked him, and Bill shook his head.

_Mom wouldn’t let me, yesterday,_ he wrote. _She basically knocked the police down dragging me home. She said we’d do it later. _

“I mean, it’s not like he’s going anywhere soon,” Richie pointed out. “I guess his parents haven’t posted his bail yet – that’s according to what Officer Nell told Stan’s mom, anyway – so if they haven’t done it by now, maybe they don’t have the money for it?”

“Rich, did you give your statement?” Stan demanded, clearly not reassured. 

“Yeah,” Richie said. “While I was waiting around at the hospital. I didn’t tell him about the curse or anything, just how Hockstetter and Bowers had, uh, gone after me on Wednesday. And that Hockstetter broke into my house before Bill came along.”

Bill tapped on his notepad with the cap of his pen. His expression was unreadable, but he was watching Richie keenly. _Anything else? _he wrote.

Richie squinted at him. “What else would there be?” he asked.

Bill shrugged, fiddling with the metal spiral that bound his notebook, and didn’t answer. After a moment, he began to write on his pad, but quickly changed his mind and scratched it out.

“Well, there’s no way that he’s gonna be let back to school, right?” Stan said. “I don’t really know how cases like this work.”

Richie picked at his cuticles. “Hope not,” he said. “I guess it depends whether he gets convicted or not. I don’t know. I haven’t talked to Officer Nell about it yet. He told me to take a few days off school anyway, while they figure out what’s going on with Bowers and whether he needs to be charged too. I guess they don’t want me running into him or something.”

“Well that’s bullshit,” Stan said. “Why the hell are they making you stay home? They should be making Bowers stay home! He’s the one who—"

“Could we talk about something else?” Richie interrupted. “Sorry, I just— Can we not think about this for a bit?” Restlessness made his leg jitter up and down, and he jumped when Bill rapped his knuckles against Richie’s knee.

_Okay_, Bill wrote. _Did you see that the Soda Fountain put out an ad in the paper for counter attendants?_

“No fucking way,” Richie said.

~

It took four days for Wentworth and Maggie Tozier to return to Derry.

They arrived Tuesday night, blown in by the breeze that rushed cool air down from the north. Their headlights fell red on Derry asphalt like sunlight through church windows.

Richie wasn’t aware of their arrival. He didn’t hear the hiss of their tires on the damp asphalt as they drove down Route Two. He was too far away to hear Maggie’s scream, when she and Wentworth found the police tape stretched across their front door. Even if he had been closer, he wouldn’t have thought anything of it; at that moment in time, he was trying – and failing – to plead innocent to Stanley Uris.

_(“Someone pulled all my records off the shelf, Richie!”)_

_(“It wasn’t me! What the fuck, Stanley, I thought we had trust between us.”)_

_(“So someone else made a dick-shape with them on my floor?”)_

_(“It’s art! You’re smothering my artistic talents!”)_

_(“…You used The White Album_ _to make it look like it was jizzing.”)_

_(“Art, Stanley!”)_

~

Richie woke to Andrea’s hand on his hair. Her touch guided him up from dreams, and Richie blinked at her in the morning light.

“Time to get up, ahuv,” she said softly. “Officer Nell is here. He says your parents are back in town.”

Her hand on his forehead was warm. Richie squinted at her blearily, half-caught between sleeping and waking. “What?” he mumbled. He felt for his glasses, and when he slid them over his eyes, he saw that Andrea’s cheeks were flushed, and her jaw was set. “What’s wrong?” he slurred.

“Nothing, ahuv,” Andrea said. “Come on. He’s waiting downstairs for you.”

“Who?”

“Officer Nell is here,” Andrea repeated. Her eyes were marble-bright, but she smiled as he sat up. She used her fingers to smooth down a tangle of curls where his hair had been pressed against the pillow. “He’s going to take you to the Derry Townhouse. Your parents are staying there.”

Richie rubbed his unburnt hand over his face, batting away the remnants of sleep. He yawned, and, at last, his mind caught hold of her words. “My parents are back in town?” he asked.

“Yes,” she told him. Her fingers lingered on his curly hair. Richie blinked again, trying to figure out why her mouth was turned down at the corners. “It’s time to get up. I’ll make him a cup of tea while you get your things together.”

“Where’s Stan?” Richie said.

“He left for school already, ahuv. I’m sure you can see him again soon in the next couple days. Up you get, now. I’ll make you some toast for the road.”

She was gone before he could say more.

Still disoriented, Richie swung his legs out of bed. His bare toes curled into the warp of Stan’s carpet, and he looked over at Stan’s bed – neatly made, of course. That priss. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows, landing gold on Stan’s pillow. Richie glanced around at the bird posters hung around the walls. The half-transformed wolf-man on Stan’s _I Was a Teenage Werewolf _poster snarled back at him. Richie wondered what Stan would say, when he got home from school to find Richie gone.

Richie examined his own blankets, tossed over his mattress, and resisted the urge to sink back into bed and pull the sheets over his face.

Richie didn’t have a lot of belongings to pack up, and so he took only his backpack with him as he trailed Officer Nell out to the cruiser parked at the curb. The day was hot. At this rate, the summer was going to be a screamer: it was only April, but already Richie had reached up to unfasten the top two buttons of his Hawaiian shirt. The leaves on the oak tree in Stan’s front yard hung, languid and limp in the heat. Somewhere high in the branches, a squirrel chittered furiously as Richie and Officer Nell passed beneath.

Officer Nell opened the door for him, and Richie tucked himself into the passenger seat, sliding his backpack between his thighs. Officer Nell got into the driver’s seat, and the growl of the starting engine vibrated up through the vinyl seat coverings. Richie watched the Uris’ house shrink away from them, receding into the background until Officer Nell turned onto West Broadway and the house was blocked from view.

“You’re awful quiet this morning, Richie,” Officer Nell said. “Feeling alright?”

“Fine,” Richie said absently. He stared into the rearview mirror. “Just woke up, I guess.”

“I miss the days when I was a lad like you,” Nell said. “I used to be able to sleep past noon and not feel a wink of guilt.”

The road hummed beneath them.

“So, how have you been, these last few days?” Officer Nell asked. A sedan pulled in front of them on the road, ugly gold paint flaking off along its wooden paneling. Nell slowed to give it space.

Richie shrugged. “Ah, you know. Fresh as a spring flower, and all that.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Uris have been treating you well? Mrs. Uris was sad to let you go, I think.”

Richie allowed himself a small smile. “Yeah, they’ve been great. I’ve always liked staying over at Stan’s. Mrs. U can cook like you wouldn’t believe.”

“And you’ve been getting along with your friend? Stan? I know sharing a room can be hard, if you’re not used to it.”

“Nah, Stan’s been great,” Richie said. “It’s kind of nice, actually. Even though we have to share the bathroom. And, I mean, I know all the ladies hate it, ‘cause Stan’d have a bird if I snuck one back with me. Hard to have a good love session with a roommate, you know? I should let ‘em know that I’m back on the market.” He grinned over at Nell, but trailed off when Nell met him with a flat stare. A deep, crimson flush rose to Richie’s cheeks. “That is, I— Uh— Not that I meant _sex_, of course, I meant, uh—not sex. Duh. I meant, um. Board games. Monopoly.”

“Ayuh,” Nell said dryly. They rounded a bend in the road, and Richie shielded his eyes as the morning sun glared for a brief moment through the windshield. “Save it for the locker room, lad,” Nell said. “I certainly don’t need to hear it. Better not to kiss and tell, was the saying when I was young.”

“Yessir,” Richie stuttered, his face warm. “Or, I mean, no sir. I mean, um. That’s still the saying, I wasn’t, uh— I’ve heard it around and—yeah. I’ll save it. Sir.”

“Good lad,” Officer Nell said. “Now let’s leave that talk behind, where it belongs. You’re excited to be going back to your own folks?”

Richie seized on the new topic with relief. “Yeah!” he said. He reached out to fiddle with the radio clipped between the seats, then thought better of it. “Or, well, yeah, I suppose. Why not, right? Better than gate-crashing all the Uris’ family dinners. I mean, I love Mrs. Uris’ cooking, but you know Mr. and Mrs. Uris don’t even drink _wine?_ Turns out kosher wine is disgusting. Tastes like the grapes all rotted _before _they squished ‘em down into a barrel.”

“Charming,” Nell said.

“I know, right? Totally gross. And Mrs. Uris’ll be glad that I’m not cleaning out her fridge anymore, so it’s fine.”

Officer Nell made a noncommittal _hmm_ noise in the back of his throat. “Your parents are both wine drinkers?”

“Eh, yeah, my mom is,” Richie said, waving a hand. “She likes her reds, says they’ve got antioxidants or some shit. My dad’s more of a bourbon guy, but he doesn’t drink all that often. He doesn’t when he’s at home, anyway.”

“I was always more of a whisky man, myself,” Officer Nell mused. “Not that a fine, fifteen-year-old boy like you would know anything about liquor.” He took his eyes off the road for a brief moment to pin Richie with a look. His accent made the _fine_ came out _foine_.

Richie blinked guilelessly. “Liquor?” he asked.

He remembered last New Year’s Eve, when Eddie had snuck out from his house just before midnight and biked over to Richie’s. The two of them had taken a handle of Wentworth’s bourbon from the liquor cabinet and sat up on Richie’s roof, passing the bottle between them and watching the fireworks over downtown. Eddie had leaned against Richie’s side, and Richie had watched the light from the fireworks catch blue and gold on Eddie’s cheeks.

They’d finished the bourbon by one a.m. Richie had lurched awake the next morning, greeted by the worst headache of his life and the sound of Eddie vomiting into the toilet across the hall.

“No sir,” Richie said. “I’m too young for that stuff.”

“I’m sure,” Officer Nell said. He sounded amused. Up ahead, a traffic light flicked from green to yellow to red, and he pulled the car to an idling stop while traffic rushed by them on Up Mile Hill. “Is your father at home a lot, then?”

“Nah,” Richie admitted. He picked at the knee of his jeans. “He works a lot, so it’s usually my mom who’s home.”

“And is she home often? Or does she go with your father when he works?”

Richie shrugged again. “It depends, I guess. A lot of the time she goes with him. I don’t know if she likes Derry all that much.”

“Are they generally gone for this long? Five days is a long time to be away from home.”

Richie cast Officer Nell a suspicious glance. “… I guess,” he said. “What’s with the twenty questions?”

The light changed to green, and Officer Nell rolled through the intersection. They passed through downtown, which was stirring sleepily as the sun rose higher above the buildings. The waters of the canal were a glittering blue to their left. On the board above the Aladdin Theater, _New Summer Hits Coming Soon _were spelled out in bold letters, and they passed Mr. Keene unlocking the doors to the pharmacy with wrinkled hands_. _They drove onwards. Richie could see the Derry Library’s glass corridor catching the morning sun, making its windows blaze like fire. 

“A man can’t be curious?” Nell asked him. Somewhere behind them, a car honked insistently. Nell glanced in the rearview mirror, then away. “You’re an interesting case for us, my lad. It’s not often that we have a crime with a minor as the victim and no adults around to help us sort things out. Sorry for prying.” He chuckled. “Habit of being a cop. We’re nosy bastards. I like having a clear picture of the situation.”

“Oh,” Richie murmured. “No, right, that uh… that makes sense.” He picked at the corner of the bandage wrapped around his palm. “Did they say anything?” he said suddenly. “My parents, I mean. When you called them earlier?”

Nell swung right through the intersection where Up Mile Hill, Center Street, and Main Street smashed together. He cruised to a stop at the curb.

The Derry Townhouse had been constructed halfway down the block, though it was crumbling slowly with the years. It was a squat building of old stone. A polished, wooden entryway fronted the street, with trimmed bushes lining the siding below the windows. The sign that hung above the double doors was painted green, spelling out _The Derry Townhouse_ in a quaint, gold-lined script.

“I didn’t talk to them personally, lad,” Nell answered him. “The officer on duty last night did, when they called the station.”

“Right,” Richie said. “Of course.” He stared down at his hands, knotted together in his lap. What a stupid question.

Officer Nell sighed. “Officer Tom Callies was the man who answered the phone. He told me the details, since I’m the leading officer on the case. Mostly your folks were just confused. Anxious. Anyone would be, after coming home to find police tape across the door.”

Richie nodded. “And did they… when they called, do you know if… was there anything about— about me? I mean, did they say anything about me? After they found out what happened?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to jam his fist between his teeth. Stupid question. Beep fucking beep, idiot.

Officer Nell switched the car off. “They were anxious,” he repeated. “As I said, I don’t know exactly how the conversation went.”

Richie watched the skin around Officer Nell’s eyes tighten. He wondered if Officer Nell was telling him the truth.

“Right-o,” Nell said. He clapped his hands once. “Out you get, Richard. Let’s go meet your parents, eh?”

Richie’s fingers found the door handle before his mind had registered the command, and a moment later he and Officer Nell were strolling up the front walk of the Derry Townhouse with the gravel path crunching beneath their shoes. Officer Nell held the door for him, and Richie stepped into the spacious, air-conditioned lobby.

Gleaming oak was everywhere. There was a bar towards the back of the room, its runner faded with age but obviously well-maintained. Stairs ascended to Richie’s right, angling up to the second floor where the guest rooms began. A tarnished chandelier hung overhead. In another time, it had probably lent the room a touch of grandeur. Now, however, the brass supports were spotted with age, and the crystal housings of the bulbs were layered with a film of dust. The Derry Townhouse couldn’t be described as an upscale establishment — it was too old, too outdated for that — but it was the best Derry had. Maggie had probably been horrified as soon as she stepped over the threshold.

Officer Nell brushed past Richie on his way to the clerk’s desk. “Mornin’,” he said to the young, mousy man behind the counter. He touched a hand to the brim of his policeman’s cap. “We’re here for a Mr. and Mrs. Tozier. They’re staying in room seventeen, I believe.”

The clerk fumbled for his telephone. “Right away, Officer,” he said. “They’re not in any trouble, are they?” He flicked a glance to Richie, then back to Nell.

“No, no,” Nell assured him. “They should be expecting us. Nothing to worry about.”

The clerk gave a relieved smile and punched a number into his phone. While he spoke into the receiver, Richie wandered over to the small sitting area beside the bar. A scattering of leather armchairs and plush couches were arranged around a coffee table, where guests could sip their drinks in comfort. Richie ran his fingertips along the top of one armchair. The leather was soft and buttery with age.

“Mrs. Tozier will be down in just a moment,” he heard the clerk say.

Richie drifted away from the sitting area and towards the bar proper. A line of stools was waiting for him, and he pulled out one at the end to sit down, examining the shelves of liquor on the other side. The variety of sizes and colors astonished him. There were dark brown bottles of bourbon and whiskey, so opaque that Richie couldn’t see the liquid inside. There were tall, thin bottles of something called _grappa_, whatever the hell that was, held in fluted, graceful glass. There were light blue bottles and candy-red bottles. Near the top shelf, there was a bottle shaped like a grinning skull, holding an innocent, clear liquor and capped with a cork. Richie squinted at the label, trying to read it, but it was too far away.

He was going need a new glasses prescription, at this rate. As if he wasn’t already blind enough.

Near the skull-bottle, one shelf up and several bottles away, Richie could make out a familiar, black and white label. It was a bourbon brand, the same that Wentworth stocked in the cabinet behind his desk. Richie grimaced at it, remembering the cloying, burning taste of it after he’d staggered home from the dump almost a week ago. Had he remembered to replace the bottle before Went and Maggie had come home a couple days later? He couldn’t be sure. Not that it mattered, by this point. Maggie hadn’t mentioned it to him, and he doubted that Wentworth would ever bring it up. Would the police have moved it when they swept the house for evidence?

He wondered if anyone had found the empty pill bottle that Stan had tossed in his bathroom trash can.

“Ah,” Officer Nell said from behind him. “Mrs. Tozier, I presume?”

Richie used his feet to spin his stool around.

Maggie was standing at the top of the carpeted stairs. As ever, her dark hair was curled, falling around her face in delicate waves and held in place by an unknowable number of pins. Her make-up was immaculate. It accented the height of her cheekbones and the sweep of her bottom lip, sharpening her features into a cold, statuesque beauty. She stood holding the banister, blinking down at the lobby like Jay Gatsby standing lonely over his court. 

“You must be the officer that they were sending by,” she said, in her airy, dreaming tone. Her voice carried down the stairs like the tinkle of champagne flutes tapped together. “Have you come to tell us that the investigation is over? Wentworth will be thrilled with the news. I would very much like to sleep in my own bed again.”

Nell inclined his head to her, frowning under his mustache. “No, Ma’am. As you were told over the phone, your son has been staying with some family friends while you and your husband were unreachable. I’ve brought him back with me, which I’m sure must be a relief to you.” He glanced towards the bar. “Richie?”

Richie stood.

Why the fuck were his legs so unsteady?

He gripped the bar for support and made no move to step away as he craned his head back to see his mother. The muscles in his chest felt tight. It was as though he’d inhaled a lungful of smoke, and he had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Hi, Mom,” he said.

Maggie studied him for a period too long to be comfortable. Her eyes shuttered from the fading bruise over his jaw to the crack splintering one lens of his glasses. She held onto the banister, her mouth pouted, until a light of recognition came into her eyes. “Richard!” she said. She swept down the staircase, her dress fluttering around her ankles. Officer Nell moved to the side to allow her to pass, and Maggie’s high heels _click-clacked_ against the wooden floorboards as she approached the bar.

“Hi, Mom,” Richie said again, as she stopped in front of him. The faint scent of her citrus perfume reached him. He resisted the urge to close his eyes, to inhale greedily as much of that scent as he could. The muscles in his chest tightened further.

Without a word, Maggie put a hand under his chin. She turned his face so she could examine the discolored swelling over his cheek and jaw. 

Richie let her. Her palm was warm against his skin, and her citrus scent filled the space between them. He’d… _missed _her, he realized. He’d — God, he’d needed her. The heat of her hand was gentle against his cheek. He breathed in, letting her perfume cling to the inside of his nose. Tears pricked suddenly, and he shut his eyes. He was _pissed_ at her — she’d left him, without a word and without a thought. She’d seen his bruises, that morning. She hadn’t _done anything_. She’d shouted at him.

She’d forgotten him.

And for all that, he’d missed her.

With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine that he was seven years old again, back when Maggie had still held fantasies of their perfect family. Sometimes, in the winter months, after Richie had stomped his way through snowdrifts and exhausted himself building lopsided snowmen in the backyard, Maggie would heat up a packet of hot chocolate for him. She’d sit with him in the living room, a fire roaring in the fireplace, and she’d read her book aloud to him while he blew clumsily on the top of his drink until it cooled.

He’d never understood – or remembered, really – the books she read to him. They weren’t children’s books. More often than not, they were the type of dull, cutesy love stories that Richie avoided nowadays. But he could remember the warmth of the fire as he stretched his cold toes towards it, and how Maggie would let him lean his head against her knees. He’d fall asleep there, with Maggie’s musical voice in his ears and the sweet taste of chocolate on his tongue.

“You have a dreadful bruise,” Maggie said. She withdrew her hand, and the memory of those winter evenings slipped away like melting snow. Her lips pursed into a disappointed moue. “Didn’t you listen to me last time, Richard? I told you no fighting with the boys at school. You haven’t been fighting again, have you?”

Richie blinked at her. He _looked_ at her, and saw the unfocused camera lenses that were her eyes. “I… no, Mom, it’s the same bruise,” he said. “Didn’t — didn’t the police tell you what happened?”

“Hmm,” Maggie said vaguely. She raised a hand to her head, pushing a curl behind her ear and patting her hair to check that her pins were in place. “Yes, it’s awful, isn’t it? To think that someone broke into our house! It’s a wonder that nothing was stolen, I don’t know how we were so lucky.”

“What? Mom, no—”

“I keep telling Wentworth that we need a decent security system installed,” Maggie continued. “It was only a matter of time before someone broke in, when we live in a place like Derry. Honestly, the people here… Hmm…”

“No, Mom, he wasn’t there to steal anything,” Richie said. He raised his voice, trying to keep her attention on the conversation, but her gaze was already sliding past him, to the windows that overlooked the Townhouse’s back patio. “He was from school, Mom.”

“I keep telling you that you shouldn’t be spending time with those no-good friends of yours,” Maggie said with distaste. “This only proves my point. What was he thinking, breaking into our _house?_ I don’t know who you’ve been choosing to keep company with, Richard, but I’ve had just about enough.”

“He wasn’t my friend mom, Jesus!” Richie cried. A familiar clench of frustration turned his voice into a whine. “He’s a bully! He put me and Bill in the goddamned hospital and—”

“You were in the hospital?” Maggie asked sharply. Her gaze snapped back from the windows to fix on him. “When?”

“On Saturday,” Richie said. A swell of — it was almost like relief that buoyed up inside him. Maybe she hadn’t known? “After Hockstetter broke in, they took Bill and me to the emergency room. They had to bandage my hand, see?” He held out his burnt palm for her to inspect.

Maggie let his hand hang in the air between them. She cast a mistrustful glance at Officer Nell and leaned close to Richie, taking him by the arm and lowering her voice. “Did they find anything else?” she asked him. “They didn’t have you take off your shirt, surely? Answer me, Richard.”

The budding relief flooded out of him. He stared at her, tasting a bitter disappointment in his mouth. Of course. He should have known that would be her worry. God forbid anyone find the old, seared scar on his chest, or the neighbors would talk. “No,” he muttered. He dropped his hand. “They couldn’t give me an exam or anything because you guys weren’t around to give permission.” He shrugged out from under her touch.

Maggie relaxed into a smile, and the alarm left her face. She patted her hair again, checking the pins. “Well, thank goodness for that,” she said. “You gave me quite a scare, just then.”

“Yeah. Thank goodness,” Richie mumbled.

Maggie turned away from him. “I appreciate you bringing him by, Officer,” she said to Officer Nell. “Although I would have been happy to hear that our house was no longer off-limits. I trust you’ll keep us updated on how the investigation proceeds?”

“Of course,” Nell said. “I can personally assure you, Mrs. Tozier, that we are putting all our efforts into—”

“I’m sure you are,” Maggie said. “Well, thank you, Officer. I should take my son upstairs now, before his father gets back. Have a good day.” She nodded to him, placing a hand on Richie’s shoulder to begin leading him up the stairs.

“One moment, if you please, Mrs. Tozier,” Officer Nell said.

Maggie stopped and raised one thin eyebrow. “Yes? Please, make this quick. My husband will be picking me up soon, and I want to be ready for when he gets here.”

“He’s not upstairs?” Nell asked.

“No. He needed to take a conference call, and the reception here is too poor for such things,” Maggie said. “But we’ve agreed to meet our friends for lunch, so, you’ll understand that I’d like to hurry this along.”

“I… see,” Nell said. “Of course. Well, I have a couple of questions that I’d like to ask you. When will your husband be getting back? I’d like to talk with him too, if possible.”

“Oh, there’s no need to bother him for this,” Maggie said, laughing. “Whatever questions you have concerning the investigation, you can ask me. I’m sure I’ll be able to answer them just as well.”

Nell hesitated, his expression troubled, but gestured her to the circle of leather armchairs. “I— alright. I’d prefer to talk to both of you, but I suppose I can contact Mr. Tozier at another time.”

Maggie took her hand away from Richie’s shoulder. “About the break-in?” she asked doubtfully. “I assure you, there won’t be much we can answer. Went and I were out of town—”

Nell ushered her over to an armchair. “I understand,” he said. “Just answer what you can, and we’ll see where we stand when we’re done.” He paused to find Richie with his eyes. “Richie, would you like a seat too while we go over a few things?”

Richie reclaimed his stool at the bar, facing outwards so that he could watch Maggie and Officer Nell. Maggie sat with her spine properly upright, her legs crossed at the ankle. Rather than sinking back into her chair, she perched on the edge of the cushions, adjusting her dress so that it touched no more of the cracked leather than necessary. Across from her, Officer Nell scruffed a hand through his salt-and-pepper beard before reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a small notepad.

“Now,” he began, and paused to clear his throat. “Mrs. Tozier, you and your husband were up in Bangor these past few days, correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And was this trip for business or pleasure?”

“Business,” Maggie said. She tapped her foot impatiently against the wooden floorboards. Richie watched her eyes slide to the clock above the bar.

“And how long did this trip take? Do you remember how many days you were away from Derry?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Officer. Four days? Five?”

Officer Nell made a note on his pad. “When Richard gave us his statement, he said you had been gone since Friday, the 10th. Does that sound right?”

Maggie made a soft sound in the back of her throat. For anyone else less conscious of social niceties, it probably would’ve been a sigh of annoyance. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said. “Although I don’t see what any of this has to do—”

“Bear with me, Mrs. Tozier, I’m just gathering information so we can have a full picture,” Nell said. “I know these questions seem insignificant, but we can learn a lot from your answers. Now then, you said this was a business trip, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Why did you accompany your husband on this trip? To my understanding, you do not participate in his work. Is that correct?”

“That’s correct,” Maggie replied stiffly. “I—”

“Why did you go to Bangor as well?”

“I often accompany Went on his trips,” Maggie said. “He over-works himself. I like to make sure that he is taken care of.”

“I see. And what business did he have in Bangor over the weekend?”

For the first time, Maggie hesitated. “I— well, it wasn’t over the weekend, per say,” she said. “He had a quarterly meeting on Tuesday, and we drove up early so he could prepare everything he needed.”

Officer Nell nodded. “It must have been an important meeting.”

“Oh, yes,” Maggie said. “All the regional managers were there, to listen to presentations from last year’s grant recipients.”

“And what preparations did your husband need to make for this meeting?”

Maggie smoothed down the fabric of her dress, tapping her fingers lightly against her knee. With a start, Richie recognized that tap; it was the same motion that he himself made when he was nervous and running out of jokes. How weird to see Maggie make the same gesture. “I— you know,” she said, giving a small laugh. “Just, um, making sure the venue is rented, the paperwork is in order, that sort of thing. Crossing his T’s.”

Officer Nell didn’t answer her. Instead, he drew out a folded piece of paper from a carrier on his belt and passed it to her. “Does any of that look familiar, Mrs. Tozier?” he asked her.

She took it without speaking. As she scanned the paper, her polite expression gained a hard edge. “What is the meaning of this, Officer?” she asked.

“That,” Officer Nell said, disregarding her question, “is a receipt of Wentworth Tozier’s credit card history over the past few days.”

“_This_ is an invasion of privacy,” Maggie snapped. Her grip wrinkled the paper. “What is the meaning of this? How did you get permission to access this?”

“I requested a warrant, trying to track you and your husband down. You have to understand, Mrs. Tozier, that you were unavailable during an ongoing, first-degree assault investigation concerning your son,” Officer Nell said. He wasn’t smiling any longer. “Would you read me the first few lines of that statement, Mrs. Tozier?”

Maggie stood up, her face creased in outrage. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Officer, but this absurd interview is over. You have no right to be questioning me. I am the _victim_ of this crime. I am—”

“Your _son_ is the victim of this crime,” Nell corrected her. “Sit down, please, so that we can finish. Or would you rather I take you and your husband down to the station so that we can finish there?”

And Richie saw something that he’d never thought possible: Maggie’s face went slack with fear. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. From his stool, Richie watched in disbelief as her cheeks went white underneath her makeup. She stared in shock at Officer Nell, who looked back at her without sympathy. “You can’t—” she began.

“I can,” Officer Nell interrupted. “I will, if you make me. Sit down, Mrs. Tozier.”

Maggie sat.

Officer Nell nodded towards the piece of paper beside her. “If you please, the first few lines of the statement?”

Maggie picked up the paper with an unsteady hand. She held it for a moment, drumming the fingers of her free hand against the skirt of her dress, and then cleared her throat. “Friday, April 10th: Carvaggio’s Fine Dining and Bistro, $270. Friday, April 10th: St. Michelle’s Private Inn and Suites, $1,712. Saturday, April 11th: The Swan and Ink Patisserie and Cafe, $138. Saturday, April 11th: Chantal Opera House, $766—” She broke off, a rosy pink rising up her neck. “This is ridiculous,” she insisted. “What is your point here?”

Officer Nell steepled his fingers together and leaned forward in his chair. “You’ll forgive my spotty memory, Mrs. Tozier, but I believe you said your trip was for business?”

“That’s correct,” Maggie said. Her voice was frosty. “And?”

“Yet, as your husband’s credit card statement seems to suggest, very little business was done between Friday and Tuesday, when your husband’s meeting took place,” Nell observed.

“What of it?” Maggie demanded. “Yes, Wentworth and I put effort into maintaining our social connections, which includes attending public events. I hardly think that deserves an interrogation by local law enforcement!”

“Please, try to remain calm, Mrs. Tozier,” Officer Nell told her. “I only have a few more questions.” He ignored her noise of indignance and flipped back through his notebook, tapping his pen against the previous page. “It can’t help but escape my attention that our department placed several calls to you on Saturday, April 11th, to which we were turned down both by Mr. Tozier’s office and your hotel in Bangor. Is there any reason that you refused to accept calls during that time, Mrs. Tozier?”

“Wentworth’s work—”

“Was not an issue at that time, as we have established,” Nell said.

Maggie did not respond.

Nell continued with hardly a pause. “I also couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Richard, a moment ago,” he said. “As we’ve said, you left town on Friday, April 10th. Did you see Richard on that day?”

“Well I… yes, I assume so—”

“Did you see your mother that day, Richie?” Officer Nell asked, without bothering to let her finish.

Richie jumped on his stool. He had been so absorbed in the discussion, so flabbergasted at seeing someone throw Maggie off-balance that he’d forgotten he was a part of the scene at all. “Y-yeah,” he said. “Um. In the morning. She sent me to school.”

“And just a minute ago, I have it written here that Mrs. Tozier recalled seeing your face was bruised, is that correct?”

“Um, yeah?” Richie said. “I mean, she noticed it that morning, ‘cause—”

“Richard, be quiet,” Maggie barked at him.

Richie’s teeth clicked as he closed his mouth.

Officer Nell returned his attention to Maggie, and his eyes were cold. “Were you aware, Mrs. Tozier, that two other boys attacked your son on Wednesday night?”

“This is ridiculous,” Maggie sputtered, but Officer Nell spoke over her.

“When you noticed Richard’s bruises, did you ask him what happened?”

“I— I didn’t— Boys get into fights all the time!” Maggie said. Her lip had begun to wobble alarmingly in the sunlight streaming through the Townhouse’s back windows. “What boy doesn’t come home with bruises every now and again? I told him not to get into fights, I can’t be blamed if he didn’t listen!”

“And you were aware that he’d missed school the day before, on Thursday the 9th?”

“I— yes, Wentworth got a call from the attendance office. So I forbade Richard from skipping again, I did what any good mother would—”

“Did you ask him how he’d gotten his bruises?”

Maggie gaped at him. Her eyes glistened, and she wiped at them quickly before her eyeliner smudged. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m sure that I—”

“Richie?” Officer Nell said. “Did she ask you?”

Richie kept silent. Maggie’s last order echoed in his ears. He shook his head instead, but Officer Nell was staring at Maggie and didn’t catch it.

When Richie didn’t speak up, Nell looked over at him, and his expression softened. “It’s alright, Richie,” he said. “I know this is a scary situation. You’re probably confused as hell right now. You don’t have to say if you don’t want to, and I suspect I know the answer already. But if you _do _want to, then tell me, did your mother ask you where that bruise came from?”

Richie looked at his mother’s bewildered, beautiful face.

Did he want to tell Officer Nell? 

Richie had never, not all his life, told an adult that he came home to an empty house. His friends knew about his parents, of course, but they were his friends. There was no question that they’d side with him. This was different. Who would care that he’d started buying his own groceries by the time he was twelve? Wentworth was a successful businessman. Maggie was a fashionable socialite. Richie probably had more money in his bank account than any kid in southern Maine.

But no adult had ever asked him about his parents, either. No adult had asked him why Wentworth never showed up to parent-teacher conferences, or why Richie never had a packed lunch to bring with him to school. No adult had asked him why Maggie didn’t have any pictures of him displayed on the mantle in the living room.

Officer Nell was asking him now.

And Richie felt his voice loosen.

“No,” Richie said. “She didn’t ask.”

Officer Nell nodded. He didn’t smile, but Richie felt the warm glow of his acknowledgment nonetheless.

“Mrs. Tozier, do you have anything you would like to add to the topics we have discussed here?” Nell said, addressing Maggie once more.

For a moment, Richie thought that Maggie would be too stunned to reply. Her mouth opened, shut. Her eyes were full of a wounded betrayal. She seemed perplexed, like a young child who, having been caught drawing on the walls, cannot fathom why she has earned a scolding from her parents.

Then she gathered herself and stood from the couch, the hurt in her face replaced by an icy fury. “I have had enough of this,” she said. “I did not come down here to be ambushed and belittled by some overweight, paddy cop who enjoys verbally attacking successful women. I don’t know what this farce of an investigation is about, but mark that the Derry Police Department will be hearing from me about this.”

Officer Nell stood as well, but Maggie didn’t let him respond.

“This is the sort of gross unprofessionalism that I would expect from a backwards town police force,” she hissed. “I’ve been telling Went for years that Derry is no place for people like us. Maybe this will finally convince him that we belong somewhere else, in a city where the police know how to do their damn jobs.” This last comment she nearly spat at Officer Nell’s feet.

She crossed to the bar and put soft fingers on Richie’s elbow. “Come on, Richard,” she said to him. “Upstairs, now. Your father will be back soon. And I think we need to have a discussion about how we talk to policemen.”

Her words dragged Richie off his stool and into her wake as she _click-clacked_ in her high heels towards the stairs. Richie lingered for a moment longer, his cheeks burning as Nell tried and failed to catch his gaze. “Bye, Officer,” he muttered as he passed.

“Hold on a moment,” Nell said. His voice carried to Maggie, who was almost at the bottom of the stairs. 

She paused, and so Richie did as well. She looked back at Nell with a poorly-veiled irritation. “What else?” she asked, in a tone that indicated she didn’t much care what Nell had to say.

Officer Nell left the scatter of armchairs. He pulled his cap off of his head, revealing a shock of white hair, and scrubbed a hand across his scalp before replacing his cap. He examined Maggie’s face, searching across her angry expression, then glanced at Richie’s bruised jaw. He nodded, as if to himself. 

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Tozier,” he said. “I can’t release Richard back into your custody.”

Maggie’s body settled into a wintery stillness. “What,” she said, after a moment’s pause, “do you mean by that?”

Officer Nell didn’t flinch, though Maggie’s words were cold enough to cut. He gazed back at her with a calm implacability. “From what I have heard and seen here today, along with the information I have found during the course of this investigation, I cannot release this boy into your care,” he said. “Not in good conscience. Nothing has indicated to me that you or your husband are fit guardians, for Richie or for anyone.”

Maggie’s fingers went slack on the banister. Shock and hurt spread across her features, as though Nell had taken out his gun and hit her across the face with the barrel. “You aren’t serious,” she said, forcing out a shaky laugh. “What are you talking about? Went and I give Richard everything he could possibly need. We bought him a new bike just last year.”

“I’m not talking about bikes and toys,” Nell said. His lip twitched upwards for a second in apparent distaste before he smoothed it back down. “I have no doubt that you and your husband have enough money to provide for Richie. No, I am talking about your emotional attitude towards your son. How many days in the last month have you spent at home?”

“I hardly see how that is relevant. Richard doesn’t need a babysitter, he is old enough to stay by himself for a night every now and again—”

“He is _fifteen_,” Officer Nell said, and Richie could hear his anger beginning to leak through. “He is _not_ an adult, and from what I have gathered, it’s a miracle he remembers that he has parents at all!”

“You will not speak to me like this!” Maggie hissed at him, her voice rising. “I won’t have it, and my husband will do worse than I when he hears how you’ve disrespected me. We’re done here. Richard? Come.”

Richie started towards her, but Officer Nell caught him by the arm. “Stay here, son,” Nell said. He didn’t let go of Richie’s elbow, and Richie swallowed down a gag as the two commands crashed together inside of him.

“I don’t— what are you doing?” he asked Nell.

“Helping,” Nell said grimly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it, just yet.”

“Helping?” Maggie bit out. “You think anywhere is going to be better than his own _home?_” She laughed, her hair curling around her chin. “You think he’s going to be happy with his face splashed across the newspapers? The Tozier name means something, Officer, and you are mistaken if you think this won’t be noticed. Toziers do not belong in _state homes._”

“Richie isn’t going to a state home,” Nell said.

Richie jerked his head up to stare at Nell in blank surprise. “What?” he said. The tightness in his chest was back, squeezing.

“I’ve already spoken with Don and Andrea Uris about our options,” Nell said. He smiled at Richie, at last releasing Richie’s arm. “I had a feeling that this meeting might go sideways. I didn’t want it to, but I’ve learned to listen when my gut tells me to be suspicious. Their home is always open to you, Richard. Andrea was quite insistent that I tell you that.”

“What?” Richie repeated, dumbly.

That didn’t make sense. The Urises didn’t have space for him. They already had _Stan_, why the hell would they want another teenage boy in the house?

Except Nell had said it, and Richie knew he’d heard him right. The Urises wanted him. They wanted _him? _They wanted to, what? Take him in? Have him live with them?

It didn’t make sense.

_(“__Close your mouth, you’re catching flies,” Stan’s voice, unimpressed, whispered_)

“Officer, please,” Maggie said. Her voice caught. “The Urises? You can’t be serious! You can’t do this, I won’t allow it. Richard belongs with me. I’m his _mother._”

It brought Richie back to the present with a jarring sense of unreality. When Richie looked at her, he saw that tears were clinging to her eyelashes. She had one hand pressed to her mouth. Her shoulders moved, shaking with stifled emotion, and Richie watched her shoulder blades slide underneath her skin. He’d never noticed how delicately she was built — she was tall and long-limbed like he was. Richie figured that he could wrap his entire hand around her wrist and have plenty of room to spare.

“Mrs. Tozier,” Nell began.

“You _can’t!_” Maggie said shrilly. She blinked, and a tear escaped down her cheek before she could wipe it away.

“Mom,” Richie said, but stopped himself. What could he say? The Urises wanted him. Nell had said so. _The Urises wanted him_. The knowledge left a warm, euphoric glow inside of him, one that might make him cry if he thought about it too long. The Urises wanted him.

But— fuck, this was his _mom_. He looked at her, at the tears clinging to the line of her lower lashes, and felt his own eyes grow hot. “Mom, I—”

“Tell him,” Maggie interrupted. Her desperation was as tangible as the first freeze of the year, leaving windshields iced over and grass crackling underfoot. “Richard, tell him that I’m a good mother. You know that I am. Tell him how much you don’t want him to take you away. You can’t live with a _Jewish_ family, Richard.” She looked as though she might be sick. “Tell him that you can’t! I know you don’t want to leave!”

Something popped in Richie’s stomach, and a ragged gasp punched out of him before he could stop it. The curse was there, flaring up his throat and through his fingertips. He rocked back on his heels, his mind reeling.

_(What—?)_

“She’s a good mother,” Richie heard himself say. The curse pricked needles into his bones. He could taste ashes in the back of his throat. “I don’t want you to take me away.”

_(She’d— Had she really—?)_

“I can’t live with a Jewish family,” he said.

His throat closed. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to tear out his own tongue.

_(Why did she—?) _

_(What was **wrong** with her—?)_

Betrayal wore at his insides like handfuls of gritty sand.

Hatred welled, suddenly and without warning, behind Richie’s heart, and he knew, with an immovable certainty, that she didn’t fucking _care_. She didn’t care that the police were taking him away. She cared that people would talk. She cared that people would talk about _her_.

She’d made him insult _Stan_.

“You see?” Maggie was insisting. “He doesn’t want to go with you!” She held out a hand to Richie, smiling at him. “Come on, Richard. I won’t let this man take you away.”

Richie didn’t move. He glared at her, locking his knees when the curse pounded up his legs and spine. He wouldn’t be able to hold out forever, he knew, but he wasn’t going to go easily. He’d done far harder things that week. He gritted his teeth as the needles beneath his skin dug in deeper.

“No,” he said.

Maggie blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t want to go with you,” Richie ground out.

Maggie’s eyes, teary and astonished, hardened. “Richard, stop that,” she snapped. “Get over here, now.”

A hook twisted itself into Richie’s intestines and yanked. Richie bit back a groan of pain, but he kept his feet and grabbed Officer Nell’s arm. “Tell me I can come with you,” he gasped. Sweat beaded up along his hairline. He swallowed against the urge to vomit.

Officer Nell steadied him, his brow furrowed in concern. “Of course you can come with me, Richie,” he said, and Richie sucked in a breath of relief as the pain inside him evaporated. Nell looked confused, which Richie couldn’t blame him for, but Nell didn’t press. Instead, he turned to Maggie.

“Well, it sounds like the boy knows what he wants,” he told her. “I’ll have the department contact you and your husband so that we can discuss next steps.”

Maggie shook her head. When she found her voice, it was a manic shriek. “You can’t do this! You can’t!”

Officer Nell guided Richie towards the door with a hand on the small of his back.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Maggie screamed, and Richie stumbled. Her high heels clattered on the floor, but Officer Nell kept a supporting grip on Richie’s arm to help him forward. “You can’t do this, you have _no right_—”

“Mom,” Richie said quietly. He shook off Officer Nell and faced her. Her cheeks were blotchy under her makeup, and her mascara had begun to run in streaks. “You’re making a scene.”

It stopped Maggie cold. She glanced around, and for the first time realized that the desk clerk was standing behind his counter, watching the exchange with stunned attention. Her hands went to her cheeks, wiping away the mascara. She straightened, visibly composing herself as she smoothed down her dress. “Officer Nell, is it?” she said. “I’ll have your job for this. See if I don’t.”

Officer Nell didn’t respond. He took Richie’s shoulder and steered them towards the exit. In Richie’s ear, he murmured, “she’s welcome to it. I’m retiring next year anyway.”

~

Sunlight hit them as they stepped out of the Derry Townhouse. The sidewalk shimmered in its spring haze.

Richie and Officer Nell walked to the car in silence, both listening to the uneven compression of wind as traffic paced relentlessly over on Up Mile Hill, one street over.

Nell opened the door for Richie, and Richie slid inside. The seat fabric, warmed by the sun, seeped heat through the seat of his jeans. Richie watched as Officer Nell crossed in front of the car, and he was grateful when Nell got in without a word. He didn’t think he could talk just yet.

His mind felt overfull. It was like a cup filled to the brim, kept from spilling only by the fragile surface tension of the water. One bump, and water would crash over the sides.

Nell didn’t turn on the ignition, and the two of them sat there for indeterminable minutes before Nell stirred. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Richie looked at him, startled. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Nell repeated.

Richie was mystified. “No, I heard you, I just— why would you be sorry?”

“You shouldn’t have had to see that,” Nell said, almost sheepishly. “That’s not… a situation a lad should be involved with. Normally, I wouldn’t have brought you at all. I would’ve gone myself.”

Richie thought about that for a moment. “You were never planning on letting me go back to my parents, were you?” he asked, and Nell had the good graces not to lie.

“No,” he admitted. “As I said, I had my suspicions.”

“So why’d you bring me at all?”

Nell started the car and shifted into first, pulling away from the curb. In the side mirror, Richie could see the townhouse dwindling as they rolled away. He faced forward and fidgeted with the handle of the glovebox while he waited for Nell to answer.

“I needed to be sure,” Nell said at last. “It’s no small thing to break up a family. I wanted to see them interact with you before I made a final decision. Your daddy being gone already was a good first clue of how that meeting was going to go.”

Richie traced his thumb around the small lock set into the glovebox’s handle. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really. Wentworth had never gave a shit about him, and hadn’t made an effort to hide that fact. Richie didn’t know why he’d expected Went to be there. He hadn’t cared when Richie had come home in fourth grade with a bloody nose and busted glasses, courtesy of Henry Bowers, so why should it be different this time around?

Abruptly, Richie was sick of himself. Why the hell did he get his hopes up, every time? He knew better. His parents weren’t going to change. He was tired of pretending as though they might. It was a kick in the teeth, every time they reminded him that they wouldn’t.

“Richie?” Officer Nell asked him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Richie said automatically. “I’m peachy-keen, jellybean.”

Nell took his eyes off the road long enough to give Richie a gentle look that Richie felt blister through his insides. “Are you sure?” he said. “Because it’s okay to not be fine, you know.”

Richie considered that. He bit back his first instinct, which was to insist that he _was _fine, thanks. Instead of deflecting, he took a breath and tried to think about the answer. There was hurt, yes, that was true. He didn’t think the memory of his mother’s tearstained, angry demand

_(Richard, tell him that I’m a good mother)_

would fade anytime soon. He could feel her words in his mouth,

_(I can’t live with a Jewish family)_

and the horror of it made a sick, oily shame grease his throat.

But he also thought about the mattress set up for him in Stan’s room. He thought about the conversations the two of them had whispered into the nighttime shadows, the topics wandering with no direction — no need for direction — until they drifted off to sleep. He thought about Andrea fussing over the bruises on his face, and her careful hands taping a plastic bag over his bandaged hand so that he could shower. He remembered Don laughing at Richie’s Richard Nixon impression during dinner, so hard that he’d excused himself from the table to get a glass of water. 

He was going back there. He was going to _live_ there, if Nell hadn’t been pulling one over on him.

Richie swallowed. Smiled. “Maybe not ‘fine,’” he allowed. “But… I think I will be. I’m better. Than I have been.”

Nell turned onto West Broadway, and they passed under the shade of the branching pine trees outside of Derry Elementary School. Sunlight dappled over Nell’s stubbly cheeks. “I think you’re right, kid,” he said. “From the looks of things, with the Urises and your friend Bill and whoever else, you’ve got a lot of good people who care about you.”

“I do,” Richie said quietly. “I really do.”

They rode in silence for a moment, Nell with his hands at a prim ten-and-two on the steering wheel.

Richie gazed out of the side window at the town scrolling by them. A kid biked past them, dark-haired and handsome. Richie recognized him – he went to the Baptist school on the other side of town. Mike Something-or-other. Nell slowed as Mike reached the crosswalk, and Nell gestured the kid across. Mike gave them a polite wave and stood on his pedals, the basket on the front of his bike rattling. He shot off down 6th Street and vanished from view.

Richie watched him go. He’d never met the guy personally, but he knew Henry Bowers had a special chip on his shoulder reserved only for Mike. Not hard to guess why. Racist fuck. Richie might not have a great time of it at school, when his motormouth was liable to shoot off at any moment, but he guessed Mike had it about fifteen times worse. It couldn’t be easy being the only black kid in a white-bread town like Derry.

Richie wondered if Hockstetter had ever helped out with Bowers’ malicious vendetta against Mike. 

He hoped not. He really, really hoped not.

“What happened to Patrick?” he blurted out. A blush rose at once to his face but he clamped his mouth shut, refusing to let any of the other shit inside of him bubble over. He could say a fucking _name_ without losing it, Jesus.

“Hockstetter?” Nell asked. Richie nodded, and Nell exhaled in a slow gust. “Well, it’s a complicated situation,” he began with.

Richie couldn’t help a tiny snort, and Nell gave him an amused glance.

“No, I don’t suppose that’s any sort of satisfying answer, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

Nell took his time to answer, as though he was deciding which words needed saying. At last, he said “I’m not supposed to give out details of the case, you know. It’s against our policies.”

Richie opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Nell wasn’t finished.

“Policies are really more guidelines, when you think about it,” he said. “And when I think about it, I think that you shouldn’t be kept in suspense about this. You’re young, but not that young. My sergeant probably would disagree with me, but I think you have more of a right to know than most anybody.”

“Is there going to be a trial?” Richie asked.

Nell hummed low in his throat. They turned onto the Uris’ block, and Nell slowed the car to a stop at the curb. Neither of them moved to get out. Nell killed the engine, and silence settled on soft paws around them. “Up until yesterday, that was looking like the plan,” Nell said. “We’ve been at your house, of course, gathering evidence. Interviewing your classmates and teachers. Whatever else was said in those interviews, at the end of it all, there were no witnesses, apart from Bill Denbrough. Nothing solid enough to pressure Mr. Hockstetter into pleading guilty, in other words. We only had your testimony of what happened, and unsurprisingly, Mr. Hockstetter denied your claims.”

Richie flushed a deep, indignant red. “I’m not lying!” he cried. “What the fuck? _He’s_ lying! How could he deny what happened? How can people _believe_ that? That’s fucking bullshit! You saw what happened, Officer, you saw my house! You can’t believe that I would be making this up—”

Nell held up his hand, and Richie wrestled his mouth under control. “I know all that,” Nell explained. “But you have to understand that it’s not me that needs convincing. It’s a jury of folks who only have what evidence is presented to them.”

“So that’s it?” Richie shouted. The inside of the car was suddenly very hot, and very small. He wiped at his face. “Hockstetter can just say ‘wasn’t me’ and the fingerprints on Bill’s neck don’t mean jack? Hockstetter was _at my fucking house_ when you guys showed up, how much more red-handed can you get?”

“In his story, Mr. Hockstetter claims that there was a second attacker,” Nell said. “He claims that he came to tutor you, but that someone else knocked him out and then went after you and Bill.”

Richie gaped at him, slack-jawed. “That’s… you know that’s crazy, right? That’s batshit. That’s the worst cover-up story I’ve ever heard. How the hell would someone else have been there?”

Nell held his gaze. 

A breeze blew over the windshield of the car, carrying a golden cloud of pollen dust that stuck to the glass like white rain.

Nell cracked a smile. “Yes, it’s a terrible story,” he agreed. “I’m not too worried about poking holes in it, particularly when your biology teacher—”

“Mrs. Huxley?”

“That’s the one. She is adamant that she never assigned you a tutor. In fact, I believe your grade in that class is higher than Mr. Hockstetter’s.”

“What the fuck! Why didn’t you start with that?” Richie demanded.

“Sorry, lad,” Nell said. He grinned. “I take my laughs when I can get them. It’s the Irish in me.”

Richie scowled at him. “So what are you guys waiting for?” he asked. “If you know his story is B.S., just send him to prison already.”

“Well, that was going to be the plan,” Nell told him. “The DA was gearing up for a one-to-three year sentence, if Mr. Hockstetter wanted to take a plea bargain—”

“One _year?_” Richie asked, outraged. “That’s _it?_”

Nell pinned him with a look, and Richie subsided. “It was what we were thinking,” Nell said, “until this Monday. I got to wondering that story that you told me, when you gave me your statement at the hospital. So, I found time to take a little stroll through the Barrens.”

Richie stilled. He had to lick his lips twice before he could work up the courage to speak. “Did you find it?” he asked. His voice was barely above a whisper.

Nell nodded. “Ayuh. Thought I was wasting my time, but I found it out by the dump. An old refrigerator.”

“And it was… the right one?”

Nell’s expression darkened. “Oh, yes. No doubt of that.”

Richie didn’t have the nerve to ask him what he had seen.

“I took pictures for evidence and brought my sergeant down yesterday,” Nell went on. “And that’s when the conversation stopped being about what prison length stay Mr. Hockstetter might need, and started being about _where_ we might want to send him instead.”

“What do you mean?” Richie asked.

“I’ve talked to a lot of your classmates and teachers over the past few days, Richard,” Nell said. “And the common theme that’s come up during these interviews is Mr. Hockstetter’s unusual temperament. He is distant, shows little signs of compassion or empathy, and has a tendency towards cruelty that is, frankly, alarming.”

Nell paused. “This information, along with what I found in Mr. Hockstetter’s refrigerator, well. The sergeant and I both agree that, if all goes our way, Mr. Hockstetter is in the lineup for a good, long stay at Juniper Hill Asylum. And it looks like things might be going our way, if you can believe that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck Maggie, could be the alternate title of this chapter. As I'm sure was obvious, I don't actually know how police handle cases of child neglect (I'm pretty sure they call child services? Idk), so just remember that this is fiction! My world, my rules >:D so I guess this is how the police do it in this universe?
> 
> Sorry for the lack of Losers in this chapter, guys, but I promise, next chapter is gonna be more Losers (and kids talking awkwardly about their feelings) than you know what to do with :)
> 
> In the hopes of avoiding another "shit-I-missed-my-deadline" moment, I'm actually not going to set a date for the next chapter. I'm going to say look for it around New Years, because that gives me some wiggle room and I hate making you guys wait past an update-day. Thanks everyone for bearing with me while I switch things around!
> 
> See you guys then <3


	11. Part Eleven – 1991: Before Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I h-have nightm-mares too, y-y-you know,” Bill said abruptly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends! Happy Sunday, and Happy New Year!
> 
> Here we are, the second-to-last chapter. As promised, get ready for boys struggling to talk about their feelings, and somewhat succeeding. I maybe should've edited this one more, but I am getting pretty excited that we are coming to the end of the story :D I hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Past sexual and physical assault, internalized homophobia, descriptions of panic attacks

_Richie blinks. _

_He is standing in the dump, and gravel digs into the soles of his bare feet. Overhead, the moon is round and bloated, white as a sac of spider’s eggs. The night is cold._

_ “You think you’re funny, Dollface?”_

_ Richie turns. The air stings on his skin. It is a bladed knife, waiting to cut._

_ Hockstetter stands behind him, leaning his thighs against the hood of a rusted-out junker._

_ “Come here,” Hockstetter says. He smiles. His teeth are white like the moon, sharp as the air around them._

_ “No,” Richie says. He blinks again, and his knees are against the gravel. His hands are resting on Hockstetter’s thighs. _

_ “You don’t say ‘no’ to me,” Hockstetter tells him._

_ Shadows skitter in the spaces between the husks of the abandoned cars. Richie tries to look at them, but his vision is blurry. Hockstetter pulls his glasses from his face and flings them into the creeping darkness._

_ “Don’t worry about them,” Hockstetter says. “I’m right here.”_

_ His hands are in Richie’s hair, and the front of his pants are unbuttoned. Open._

_ “I don’t want to,” Richie says. His voice is thin and high, a little kid’s voice. It’s swallowed by the moon._

_ “Richard, that’s not your decision,” Maggie says._

_ He turns his head to see her, Hockstetter’s hands still in his hair. Maggie sits in the driver’s seat of another junker, her gloved hands on the bent steering wheel._

_ She shakes her head at him. “We gave you a gift,” she says, and her words echo across the gravel as though they come from the bottom of a deep well. “We gave you a gift. Wasn’t that enough? Do as you’re told.”_

_ Hockstetter’s hands are tight in his hair._

_ “Listen to your mother, Dollface,” Hockstetter croons. “She knows I’m right. This is all you’re good for. Haven’t I proven that?”_

_ Richie stares up at him, at his sickly pale face and hollowed eyes._

_ “No,” he says again, choking because he can’t breathe, he can’t **breathe** and Hockstetter’s fingers are holding his head still while Hockstetter makes grunting noises above him._

_ The moon grins down at them, lips red in a clown’s painted smile._

_ “You think you can get rid of me?” Hockstetter asks. “I don’t like sharing, Fuckdoll.”_

_ “Do as he says, dear,” Maggie sighs from her car. She brushes pieces of broken windshield out of her hair._

_ “Did you think I’d forget?” Hockstetter says. He laughs. “I want to know what sounds you’ll make. Do a stupid voice, Fuckdoll. Isn’t that what you’re good for?”_

_ He pushes._

_ Richie falls._

_ He falls backwards, down, down, down, until he crashes against a hard surface and dirt trickles into his eyes. He falls too far to scream._

_ Miles above him, Hockstetter’s silhouette stands jagged against a tiny square of moonlight. “Nighty-night, Dollface,” Hockstetter whispers. _

_The words reach Richie, crossing the endless distance of earth._

_ The door to the refrigerator slams closed._

_ The smell of rot is thick. Beneath Richie’s hands, he touches soft, decomposing fur. Richie feels at the inside of the door, but there is no handle. No hinges._

_ No light._

_ No light._

_ No light._

_ Richie opens his mouth to scream, but dirt is in his mouth and in his eyes._

~

Richie woke, choking.

He lunged forward, distantly aware of the blankets tangled in his legs and the warm weight of Stan’s shoulder pressed against his back. There was a sleepy sound of confusion behind him – Bill maybe, or Eddie, as Richie scrambled across the mattress, his knees digging into someone’s thigh before he kicked himself free of the blankets and fell to the floor with a _thud_.

“Wha-?” someone said, muddled and drowsy.

Richie ignored them. There was a strange whimpering in his ears, like the whine of a beaten dog. It wasn’t until he sucked in a desperate breath of air

_(not dirt, there’s no dirt, why would there be dirt?)_

that Richie realized that the sound was coming from _him_.

“Richie?”

There was a movement in the darkness around him. Richie almost flinched. He waited for hands to grab him, but none did.

The overhead light flicked on.

“Richie?” Stan said.

Richie stared around the room. His chest rose and fell in frantic, shallow bursts. 

Stan was standing by the door, one hand still on the light switch. His eyes were wide in his face, which was puffy with sleep. In the center of the room – it was Stan’s bedroom, Jesus, he knew where he was, _stop freaking the fuck out_ – lay Stan’s and Richie’s mattresses, which they’d pulled from their frames and piled on the floor, along with a heap of blankets and pillows. Eddie’s head was peeking out from this nest, one side of his curly hair smushed against his head. He blinked blearily, squinting in the light.

The tight, suffocating weight pressing onto Richie’s chest grew heavier, and he watched Eddie’s expression change from sleepy confusion to baffled concern. Richie’s lungs shuddered. The wheezing gasps as he fought for air filled Stan’s bedroom like steam.

“Rich. Hey,” Bill said. Richie’s gaze snapped to the side.

Bill had freed himself from the blankets. He stood several feet from Richie, hands half-open at his sides. His shirt was rumpled, but his face was alert. “It’s okay,” he said. “Richie, it’s o-okay, I promise.” His voice was a husky, cracked rasp. The doctors had given him a cautious green-light on speaking only two days ago.

Richie didn’t answer. His gaze flickered around the room, jumping from corner to corner as though Hockstetter might be propped up against the wall, his arms crossed and that lazy, predatory smile tugging at his lips.

“Richie,” Stan tried. He took a step forward, and Richie shied back. Stan stopped. His hands were held out in front of him, and there was a devastated look in his eyes before he blanked his expression.

Hockstetter wasn’t here. Richie clenched his jaw, fighting to steady himself. Hockstetter wasn’t here. He remembered now, the sleepover that they’d all planned. Don and Andrea had gone out to dinner, and the four of them had the house to themselves. They’d watched Spaghetti Westerns on the T.V. in the living room, big bowls of popcorn on their laps. Richie had been scrunched between Bill and Eddie, with his head propped against Bill’s shoulder and his legs tangled with Eddie’s.

Hockstetter wasn’t here.

“Richie,” Bill said. Richie’s gaze settled on him and stayed. His breaths wouldn’t slow from their panicked, humming-bird thunder. The skin of his throat felt thin, like folded paper ready to tear. “It’s okay, Richie,” Bill repeated. “You’re at Stan’s house. You’re h-here with us. There’s no one else.”

Richie knew all this. He _knew_ it.

Why was his body still shaking?

He squeezed out a uneven, hitching laugh. “Sorry, guys,” he said.

Eddie sat up farther. His face was ashy in the dim light. “It’s okay, Rich,” he said. “You don’t have to be sorry—“

“It was just a wild dream,” Richie said, smothering Eddie’s words with his own. Eddie’s tone, soft and tentative, made him want to scream until his ears rang. “So many _babes_, you guys. I didn’t even know what to do with them all.” His voice cracked.

Eddie, Stan, and Bill all stared at him.

_Like I’m another dumb animal in the zoo_, Richie thought. _Just a dumb fucking animal. Or worse. A freak in a sideshow. A doll on a shelf._

“Like, seriously,” Richie said. There was an awful silence filling the room, spilling through the drywall like scummy water. Richie spoke to keep from drowning. “It was like, more tits than I knew what to do with. Tits _everywhere_, guys. I had a handful on each side, and I was nowhere close to satisfying them all. Woke up ‘cause my dick was just getting so goddamned chafed with all the tail I was—”

“Richie,” Bill said. He was close, so much closer than Richie had thought. Why had he taken his eyes off Bill? There was too much to keep track of.

Bill’s arm was partially extended, reaching out.

Richie lurched away. The small of his back rammed into the corner of Stan’s desk, but Richie hardly felt it. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he gasped.

Bill stopped, his arm still raised. “Rich—”

“Water,” Richie said. He couldn’t look at Bill, or at any of them. “I’m just—I’m gonna get some water, I—go back to sleep. You should—sorry for waking you guys up.”

He ducked under Bill’s hand and bolted.

The house was dark. Richie slid down the stairs, feet careful on the carpeted steps, because Don and Andrea slept below and he couldn’t wake _them_ up too. He couldn’t deal with their well-meaning, suffocating attention right now.

In the kitchen, with the door closed behind him, Richie gripped the edges of the sink and quietly allowed himself to be sick. When he was done, he stared at the mess he had made. _Good going, Trashmouth. _ As if he hadn’t come in and fucked up the Uris’ house enough.

No. That wasn’t fair. Ever since Officer Nell had returned with Richie a week ago, Don and Andrea had done nothing but make him feel welcome. Andrea had gone out and bought a proper bed frame, and Don had started moving his things out of the office on the second floor so that they could turn it into a proper bedroom for Richie.

“It’s about time I put all this junk in the synagogue anyway,” he’d told Richie cheerfully, when Richie had protested. “Or just thrown it out. It’s been piling up for years.”

They’d signed enough paperwork to give them both carpal tunnel. Officer Nell had dropped by nearly every day that week, bringing stacks of paperwork for the Urises and updates on Hockstetter’s case for Richie. In private, with Richie listening in through the closed kitchen door, Officer Nell had explained the situation to Don and Andrea in a low, furious voice.

“His mother doesn’t want the neighbors to talk,” Nell had told the Urises. Richie had kept his hand clapped over his mouth to muffle any noises that might escape him. He didn’t need the adults discovering him and banishing him upstairs.

“What do we do?” Don had asked. Richie could hear his footsteps as he paced back and forth across the floor. “We’re not letting him go back there, Officer. He’s living here. That family doesn’t deserve him, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

“He’s not going back,” Officer Nell had agreed. “I don’t think we can bring adoption to the table, but we still have options. Have you ever heard of a change of guardianship?”

“That sounds like adoption to me,” Andrea had said.

“Not quite. The Tozier’s will retain financial responsibility of Richard – not a hardship for them, I’m sure – but you and your husband will hold all decision-making power for Richard until he turns eighteen. Think of it more as a fostering than anything else.”

“The Tozier’s couldn’t have agreed to that,” Don had said.

“Not at first,” Officer Nell said. Even through the door, Richie had heard the smile in his voice. “Mrs. Tozier wasn’t pleased with the idea. But she was less pleased when I suggested that I bring her up on charges of child abandonment and neglect instead.”

Richie had crept away from the door, smiling. He’d pushed down the clench of guilt lingering in the pit of his stomach.

Stan’s eyes had lit up when Richie had told him the news, and the two of them had called Eddie and Bill the same night. The boys had celebrated with their marathon of western movies, after promising the Urises and the Denbroughs that they wouldn’t do anything too rambunctious so that Richie and Bill could rest.

It had been a good night too. Bev had shown up partway through _The Magnificent Seven_, awkward at the invite but bringing with her a bag of licorice whips. Eddie and Bill had taken to her at once, and soon she’d been throwing popcorn at the screen right alongside them. It had been comfortable. She’d fit with them, in a way that nobody had since Eddie joined their little group in third grade.

After the movies were over, Bev had waved goodbye to them before her father could start to worry. The four boys had trooped upstairs to Stan’s and Richie’s bedroom. Eddie had bullied the other three into brushing their teeth, and they’d dragged the two mattresses onto the floor so that they could fall asleep, piled on top of each other like puppies. It had been good. It had been _fun_.

Until Richie had gone and ruined it.

Richie swallowed and waited to see whether he would vomit again. He could taste bile in the back of his throat, but his stomach settled as he took long, steady inhales through his nose.

Behind him, the kitchen door opened. Richie listened to the pad of footsteps across the tiled floor. In a rush of falling water, he washed away the mess that he’d made in the sink.

“Thought I told you to go back to bed,” he said without heat.

“And I th-thought we t-told y-y-you, you d-don’t ha-ave to shut us o-out anym-m-more,” Bill replied. He leaned next to Richie against the counter, not touching. Their combined breathing was a soft wind in the empty kitchen.

“I’m not shutting you out,” Richie said.

Bill snorted. “Rich, d-do you honestly th-think that a-any one o-of us b-believes th-that you w-were dreaming a-ab-about women?”

“I could’ve been,” Richie muttered. “Isn’t that what the kids are dreaming about these days?”

“S-Since when a-a-are we m-most kids?”

Richie absorbed that in silence. When he cut his eyes to the side, Bill was a statue of white beside him, formless without Richie’s glasses to give him shape. “Doesn’t hurt to pretend,” Richie said at last.

Moonlight moved like river water across their hands. Richie wiggled his fingers where they rested on the counter, and the bandage over his burned palm fluttered. Dr. Trishell had changed the bandage for him only yesterday.

“It c-could,” Bill said. “If it’s h-h-h— if it’s hurting you.”

“It’s not. I’m peachy-keen, jellybean.”

“Are you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Richie cracked a smile. His voice dropped into a swaggering, 1930’s gangster drawl. “I’ve got it all, can’tcha see? We’ve got the girls, the guns, the money. We’ve got bootleggers running all over this joint. The Fed’s thought they could stop me? We’ve got booze flowing up from Mexico, Billy my dear man, and if the pigs start sniffing around this operation, my boys’ll light ‘em up so fast you could set ‘em in your fireplace, warm the house with ‘em.”

“I d-don’t think th-th-that made sense.”

Richie sniffed. “Your face doesn’t make sense either, but you don’t hear us bringing it up, do you?”

“Richie,” Bill said. He wasn’t chastising, but Richie shut himself up all the same. Bill leaned over. His hand covered Richie’s and Richie couldn’t help but twitch at the contact.

Bill wouldn’t hurt him. He knew that,

_(“Imagine what their faces would look like, if they knew how good you are at sucking dick” Hockstetter had laughed)_

but his dream was raw in his mind. The memory of Hockstetter’s jeans was rough under his fingers. His eyes, wide and glazed, crinkling gleefully when he told Richie to _suck me off like you mean it_.

Richie pulled his hand away, and Bill let him.

Together, they looked out the kitchen windows at the night pressing itself against the glass.

“I h-have nightm-mares too, y-y-you know,” Bill said abruptly.

Richie tilted his head to look at Bill’s drawn face. “Yeah?” he said.

“Yeah,” Bill said. “I s-scared Georgie, the o-o-other night.”

Richie held himself still.

“I w-woke him up,” Bill said. Even without his glasses, Richie could see that Bill was gripping the counter, white-knuckled. “I was d-d-dreaming a-about Hockstetter. I was back i-in your kitch-kitchen, and he w-was ch-ch-choking m-me, all o-over again.”

“Bill—” Richie murmured.

“I had to l-l-lie,” Bill went on. He was fighting to spit the words out. “Because I c-can’t tell m-m-my little b-b-b-brother that some s-sch-school bully a-almost _k-k-k-killed_ me.”

Through the space that separated them, Richie could feel that Bill was trembling. He wanted to reach out and touch. He wanted to pull Bill into a hug, because that’s what you did when your friend was upset.

Richie couldn’t move.

“Do you still have the dreams?” he asked quietly.

Bill jerked his head in a nod. “Y-yeah. Those a-aren’t the w-w-worst th-though.”

“What do you mean?”

Behind them, the refrigerator clicked, then hummed as it turned on. The sound made Richie squeeze his eyes shut.

“I have o-other dreams,” Bill admitted.

Richie looked down at the drain and said nothing.

“Sometimes, I-I’m at your f-f-front d-d-door,” Bill said. “Like h-how it happened. Except y-y-y-you d-don’t a-ans-answer when I kn-knock. So I g-g-go in-inside, because the d-d-door’s unl-locked, but I’m t-t-too late. You’re i-in the k-k-kitchen, w-with _h-him_._”_ Bill stopped. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his bruises, and Richie thought he might continue, but he didn’t.

“You weren’t too late,” Richie said, after a moment. He knocked a timid elbow into Bill’s side. “I’m right here, Bill. You got there in time.”

Bill chewed on his bottom lip. In the dimness, the bruises around his neck were plum shadows against his pale throat, and when he spoke, his voice was no louder than a whisper. “D-did I, th-though?”

Richie drew back from him, giving an uneasy smile. “’Course you did,” he said. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

Bill seemed not to hear him. He stared down at the counter, lost somewhere far away from them both. “I r-r-remember what Hock-ck-Hockstetter said t-to you,” he confessed to the counter. “Th-that’s in m-m-my dr-dream too, s-sometimes.”

“Hockstetter said a lot of things, Billiam.”

Bill ignored him. “H-h-he s-said he—He s-s-said th-that he p-p-p-put y-you—h-he said th-that—” Bill broke off, a flush rising to his cheeks, visible even through the dusky nighttime shadows. “It s-sounded l-l-like he w-w-w-was s-saying that… Th-th-that he m-m-m-made y-you—”

Richie’s fingers were cold. He watched the tendons in his wrists grow taut as his hands flexed against the counter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Hockstetter was probably just trying to mess with you, Bill.”

_(Hockstetter’s fingers in his hair, yanking)_

Bill frowned at the darkness beyond the Uris’ windows. He didn’t speak for so long that Richie began to relax, thinking that the conversation would end. He wasn’t tired yet – not when he knew what dreams were waiting for him – but he wouldn’t mind sitting out on the Uris’ back stoop, following the stars as they slid across the velvet of the sky. Maybe, once Bill had gone to bed, he’d grab a blanket from the closet and wait for sunrise.

“I d-d-don’t think h-he was,” Bill said.

Richie started. He looked over at Bill, and the lines of Bill’s jaw and cheekbones were chiseled by the moonlight. They cast deep, angular shadows into the pockets of his face. His lips were turned down unhappily.

“What?” Richie asked.

“I d-don’t th-th-think h-he was just s-s-saying it t-to mess with m-m-me,” Bill repeated. He met Richie’s gaze, and Richie was aware of how his own healing bruises must appear in this half-light: greenish stains, like mold growing under his skin. Like rot.

Richie wrenched his eyes away, unable to meet Bill’s searching stare. “Don’t be dumb, Bill,” he told the window.

“E-E-E-Eddie t-told us wh-what Bowers wro-wrote on y-your b-b-back,” Bill said.

Richie snapped his head up to see Bill’s solemn expression. There was no pity there, for which Richie was grateful, but there was a fiery anger blazing behind Bill’s blue eyes. A stony sort of resolve.

Richie felt his own anger begin to rise. Why the _fuck_ would Eddie tell the others that?

_(“I bet those losers would love to know that Trashmouth Tozier spends his time crying on his knees.”)_

_(shut up shut up **shut up**)_

Richie forced the outrage away before it could grow. Of course Eddie had told the others. Richie had never asked him to keep it a secret, after all.

“What about it?” Richie said, and despite himself, his words sounded cold, even to him.

Bill pursed his lips. Shadows danced and jumped over his skin. “What d-did Hockstetter and Bowers m-m-make you do?” he asked.

The anger that Richie had tried to push aside swelled again within him. “What the fuck are you on about?” he snapped. “I told you what they made me do.”

“You t-told us a l-l-little of it,” Bill said, and the nervous stuttering was smoothing from his voice. Now he sounded intent. Determined. “B-but I don’t think y-you t-told us all of it.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Richie hissed. He had to fight to keep his voice to a whisper, when every bone was vibrating inside of him, screaming at him to shout _you’re wrong Bill, you’re fucking wrong, so how about you shut the fuck up and mind your own business, huh?_

“R-Richie, you can’t keep shit l-like this bottled up,” Bill said. “W-w-we’re not dumb, you know. Do y-you think Stan hasn’t n-noticed the nightmares? This one w-w-w-wasn’t the first.”

Richie recoiled. He _hadn’t_ thought Stan had noticed.

The dreams varied from night to night; sometimes it was Hockstetter looming above him. Sometimes it was Bowers, laughing, slicing, until Richie could reach inside himself and pull out handfuls of his own guts. Sometimes it was Eddie, motionless beneath Richie’s fists. Richie hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in a week, but whatever. He was careful to muffle any noises he made with his pillow.

He thought he’d been careful, anyway.

“Alright, yeah,” he said. “So what if it’s not the first? I’m handling it, Bill. I don’t need some bullshit therapy session to figure out I got my ass handed to me.”

“Th-that’s not true,” Bill insisted. “Richie, th-they didn’t just b-b-beat you up. They t-t-tortured you!”

“So fucking what?” Richie shouted, forgetting for a moment to keep his voice down. His cry resounded through the kitchen, and both boys froze. They listened. Richie thought he heard a scuffing noise from out in the living room, but nothing further came. There was no sound from Don and Andrea’s room, and after several tense seconds, Bill and Richie allowed themselves to relax.

“H-h-how can you s-say that?” Bill said quietly.

Richie curled his hands into fists against the countertop. The rage was still inside him. It had risen so suddenly, and Richie couldn’t seem to tamp it down. “What does it fucking matter what they did?” he spat. “It happened, Bill. That’s it. Get over it.”

“You can’t j-just pretend n-nothing’s wrong!” Bill said. “You m-might think y-you’re fine, Rich, but you’re n-not! We c-can all see that it’s e-eating away a-at you. What H-H-Hockstetter said—”

“So you believe Hockstetter over me, is that it?” Richie said. He tried not to let it show, how much Bill’s words stung him. Could _everyone_ see how he was falling apart? Were they talking about him behind his back? Discussing how to deal with their pathetic, damaged friend? “I didn’t realize that psychopath was more trustworthy than me, maybe you should hang out with him instead—"

“H-how can I b-believe you when you’ve barely told me sh-sh-shit?” Bill challenged. His own voice rose for a moment, loud in the shadowy stillness.

“What do you wanna hear, Bill?” Richie turned to glare at him. “Why are you so keen on the details, huh? You want to hear how they beat me so bad I pissed blood the next day?”

Richie felt a savage pleasure at the way Bill cringed from his words.

“Rich, th-this isn’t—” Bill began.

“Isn’t what?” Richie interrupted. “Aren’t those the sort of details you were hoping for? Can’t you imagine what a pretty fucking picture that must have been?” He barked a humorless laugh. “I thought that’s what you wanted. For me to open up? To share my fucking _feelings_?” He was being spiteful. What-the-fuck-_ever_. Bill wanted details? _Fuck_ Bill for asking him this.

Annoyance flashed across Bill’s face. He worked his jaw for a moment. “If you w-want to be a d-d-dick, fine. I g-get it. But y-you need to talk a-about this, y-you can’t—”

“Don’t you fucking tell me what to do!” Richie shouted. The anger was a wild animal inside of him, roaring. He wanted to scream himself hoarse along with it. He wanted to keep screaming until the windows shattered. “Don’t you _fucking_ tell me what I can and can’t do, Bill! Don’t you fucking pretend that you understand! Just leave me alone, alright? I don’t care what you think Hockstetter told you, it’s none of your fucking business what happened. _I’m handling it_, so you can fuck right off!”

Bill crossed his arms over his chest. He seemed calm, and Richie hated him a little in that moment, watching steadily as Richie shook apart in front of him. Richie could feel his own ragged breaths whistling in his chest.

“I’m handling it,” Richie repeated.

The fridge hummed behind them.

“No, Rich,” Bill said. “You’re not. If you would just l-let us help—”

The last of Richie’s self-control gave way. “Help?” he shrilled. He probably sounded insane, but he didn’t care. How could Bill be so naïve? There was no helping this. There was no changing what happened. The best you could do was forget. Move on.

“You can’t do jack,” Richie snarled, because it seemed that Bill needed the goddamn situation spelled out for him. “You weren’t there, dipshit, you don’t fucking understand. You _can’t_ understand.”

“Then h-help me understand,” Bill said. “If you t-t-tell us wh-what happened, m-maybe w-we’ll understand more than you th-think.”

Most days, Richie loved Bill’s dogged stubbornness. Right now, Richie sort of wanted to strangle him all over again.

“What the fuck is with you and the details?” he demanded. “Is that the shit you’re into, Bill? I didn’t realize. Think it’ll get you hard if I tell you how Bowers made me lick his fucking shoes clean?”

He was pushing for a reaction – another wince, a grimace of disgust, anything – but Bill didn’t move. He looked at Richie, his eyes made reflective and unreadable by the moonlight. His silence only stoked the rage burning its way up Richie’s throat.

“You want me to tell you how much that hurt?” Richie asked, in a voice so ugly that it barely sounded like his own. “You don’t realize how sharp gravel is until you’re licking it off a boot. Or, better yet, how about a fucking reenactment? Go on, Bill. Since you’re so keen on telling me what to do. Tell me to get down and lick your _fucking shoes_. You know I’ll do it. You can even make me smile when I’m done. Think that’ll be enough detail for a good jerking off?”

The line of Bill’s chin wobbled. “Beep b-beep, Richie,” he whispered.

Richie laughed. He _laughed_, and this time Bill did flinch. “Oh, so now you want me to stop?” Richie said, spreading his arms wide and grinning. “Is this too much _sharing_ for you? I thought you wanted all the gory details, I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet! Don’t you want to hear how they made me bark like a fucking dog? How about that for a fun fucking time! Just say the word, Big Bill, I’ll do it for you too. Think that’ll keep your dick up? I’m better than a goddamn pet! You want to burn me until I scream? You can do that too, I won’t stop you. I didn’t stop _them. _Maybe afterwards you can put me on my knees, have me suck you off after all that fucking foreplay!”

Richie’s chest heaved. He wiped at his mouth, digging his fingernails into his palms to ground himself. A red haze floated in his vision, dotted with black. Richie blinked hard to clear it, and when he finally made out Bill’s face through the dark and his shitty vision, he felt the anger punch out of him.

Bill’s expression was stricken. The color had left his cheeks, leaving him wan and milky. He wasn’t crying, but a cluster of tears had gathered in the corner of each eye. His lips were parted and slack.

At last, Richie’s mind caught up with his mouth, and hot shame warmed his ears and chest. _Nice going, Tozier._

“Bill,” he said. “Aw, fuck, Bill. I’m sorry. I should’ve have gone off at you like that, I don’t know what the fuck I was doing. I didn’t mean—”

“Is that wh-what h-h-he did?” Bill interrupted.

Richie froze. “What?”

“Hockst-st-stetter,” Bill said. A tear slipped over the fence of his eyelashes, leaving a line a silver across his cheek. Bill didn’t bother to wipe it away. “Is th-th-that wh-what h-h-h-h-h-he d-did?”

Ice drove under Richie’s skin. He could feel the blood leaving his face.

Another tear escaped down Bill’s cheek, and now he did wipe it away, dashing at it angrily with his knuckles. “I h-heard him, i-i-i-i-in th-the kitchen,” he said. “Y-you – you w-w-wouldn’t l-let him f-f-finish. But he d-d-did, d-d-d-didn’t he? He m-m-made y-you—he m-made y-y-you s-suck him o-o-off?”

Richie didn’t answer. He could feel a tremor working its way up his spine, down his arms, through the fine hair on the backs of his calves. Idiot. Idiot. How had he let his mouth run away from him like that?

He couldn’t respond. His jaw felt as though it had been wired shut.

“Richie,” Bill breathed. He took a step forward, and Richie took an instinctive step back. The tremor had become a shudder. It ran through him, making his hands shake and his shoulders quiver. He needed to speak, but he couldn’t, and his silence was as good as an answer.

“I-it’s okay—” Bill started, but a scuffling at the doorway made him pause.

A dark shape hurtled into the kitchen, feet pounding against the tiled floor. Richie had no time to shy away before Eddie Kasprak was throwing his arms around Richie’s waist. “I’m gonna kill him,” Eddie said. His voice was muffled by Richie’s shirt, but it was impossible to miss the catch as it broke into a sob. “Rich, I… I… I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

Richie was so shocked by Eddie’s appearance that he could only gape down at the top of Eddie’s curly head. His arms hung limp at his sides. When he glanced up at Bill, he saw that Stan was standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Is it true?” Stan said. Moonlight fell over half his face, casting the other side in shadow. His lower lip wobbled. “Rich?”

Richie swallowed. He wanted to bury himself in Eddie’s skinny shoulders. He wanted to be anywhere else but here. “How long were you guys eavesdropping?” he asked, rather than replying.

“Long enough,” Stan said. “Is it true?”

Richie dropped his eyes. He shrugged, as well as he could with Eddie clinging to his middle. “He told me what to do. I did it.”

Stan drew in a sharp breath. He came into the kitchen with quick strides, and his emotions were painted in broad strokes across his face. There was too much there; anger and disgust and sorrow all at once. Why wouldn’t Stan look at him like that? He’d just heard what Richie had done— what Hockstetter had made him do, with a _boy_—

Richie got his hands on Eddie’s wrists and pulled gently. “Let go, Eds,” he said.

Eddie shook his head against Richie’s chest.

Richie tugged again, trying to step out of Eddie’s arms. “I mean it, Eds,” he rasped. “You shouldn’t be—why are you touching me, right now? You know what he—what I did. He’s—he’s _all over me_, okay, I’m fucking—I’m fucking _disgusting_, you shouldn’t be touching me.” He yanked at Eddie’s wrists, but before he could do more than huff in frustration at Eddie’s strong grip, a second pair of arms was wrapping around his shoulders.

Richie jerked sideways. Stan was there, his eyes teary in the moonlight. He crowded closer, careful to avoid the healing cuts across Richie’s back, and the warmth of him bled through Richie’s pajama shirt even as Richie attempted to shrink away.

“What the fuck? Stan, get _off_—”

One of Stan’s hands found the back of Richie’s neck, and he shook Richie lightly, like a cat scruffing her kitten. “No,” Stan said. “It wasn’t your fault, Richie. Hockstetter did it, not you.”

“You’re wrong,” Richie said, struggling to work the words past the thickness in his throat. “You’re wrong, Stanley, he made me—he made me—”

A hand brushed his other shoulder. “We don’t care,” Bill said. Fury was burning in his voice. He put his own arms around Richie’s shoulders, above Stan’s. “We l-l-love you, R-Rich. No m-matter wh-wh-what.”

A hot pressure grew behind Richie’s eyes, and he blinked furiously, glaring at all three of them. He could feel himself trembling beneath their hands. “You… you guys are fucking—how is Bill being the gayest one here when I’m the one who’s sucked dick?” he said.

Stan huffed a laugh against Richie’s shoulder. They were all so close, huddled together in the middle of Stan’s kitchen. God, how were they _touching_ him right now? He was

_(just a pretty doll)_

fucking pathetic. He could remember gravel pressing into his knees and the lightheaded, coppery taste of panic as he tried to breath through the smell of Hockstetter all around him. How could he let them touch him after that? What if it—what if it got on them, somehow? Like a virus passed between hosts?

“Guys, _stop_,” he said again, and he didn’t care if they heard his desperation. He pushed at Eddie’s shoulder with one hand, prying at Stan’s elbow with the other. He squirmed, but there was nowhere to go. The three of them anchored him in place. “You shouldn’t be touching me, _let go_, you assholes—”

“Richie,” Eddie said into his shirt. “You’re making it really hard not to tell you to shut up.”

Bill’s arms tightened around him. “We’re n-not going anywhere, Rich,” he muttered.

Richie wanted to protest. A sob wracked his chest before he could, and he clenched his jaw shut. He wouldn’t start crying, no fucking way. His friends had already heard him lose it a few minutes ago, they didn’t need to see him as a sobbing wreck. If they wanted to have this stupid hug-fest, fine. But he wasn’t going to break down like a toddler in the middle of it.

He told himself this firmly, even as the heat in his eyes overspilled and he felt the first wetness of tears trickle down the corners of his nose.

A growing dampness where Stan’s face was pressed against his shoulder told him that maybe he wasn’t the only one crying. Against his stomach, he could feel Eddie shaking.

Without his permission, one of his hands twisted itself into Bill’s shirt. Somehow, though Bill was an inch or two shorter, Bill managed to tuck Richie’s head underneath his chin. Richie slumped, exhaustion dragging at him, and allowed his cheek to rest on the fluff of Stan’s curly hair. His other hand came to rest on the back of Eddie’s head.

For long minutes, they stood with their arms tangled around each other.

They breathed together.

~

Stan was the first to step away, wiping at his eyes and clearing his throat awkwardly. The other three followed suit, extracting themselves from the others until all four boys stood, separate.

“W-well, I don’t know a-a-about y-you guys,” Bill said, “but I th-think I’m ready for bed. I’m b-b-beat. We c-can talk m-more in the morning.” His voice was huskier than normal, and Richie thought that his hoarseness wasn’t due entirely to his bruised throat. Bill’s eyes were red, even in the weak moonlight.

The other three nodded, grateful that Bill had spoken first.

“Anyone want water?” Stan asked. He crossed to the cabinets and pulled down four glasses without waiting for a response. When he was done filling them at the sink, he handed two to Bill and started towards the door. Bill followed.

“Aren’t y-you guys c-c-c-coming?” he asked, pausing as he reached the living room. Eddie and Richie were still standing by the fridge, moonlight playing shadows over their hair.

Richie shrugged. “I might stay up a bit longer, Billiam. The sleep fairies haven’t caught up to me just yet.”

Bill nodded. He looked at Eddie, who was watching Richie from the corners of his eyes with his head ducked down. “Um. I think I’ll stay up for awhile too,” Eddie said. The bandage across his nose had been removed several days ago, and the lingering purple bruising around his eyes was almost invisible.

“A-alright,” Bill said. He held up his water glasses. “I’ll p-p-put these u-u-up-upstairs for you.”

He vanished from the doorway.

Richie and Eddie were left, too close and too far apart, in the empty kitchen.

Richie released a breath. “Want to sit outside?” he asked. His voice rose into a cowboy’s western drawl. “A man needs his wide open spaces. A’m more cooped up than a chicken in a hen-box.”

Eddie snorted. “There’s no such thing as a hen-box,” he said.

“Like you would know,” Richie said.

“Are you talking about a _chicken coop_?” Eddie snarked, but he trailed behind Richie as he fetched a blanket from the downstairs closet anyway.

The moon shone silver as they stepped out onto the Uris’ back porch. Richie slid the door shut behind them with a whisper of hinges, and they settled on the top step that led down to the lawn. Richie draped the blanket across their shoulders. Though it was nearing summer, the nights had not lost the bite of cold that nipped at cheeks and fingertips. Knotted beech trees and sugar maples bordered the Uris’ yard, frost limning their trunks. Dewy buds of growth clumped the ends of their branches, but stars glittered through the gaps in the new leaves.

“Look,” Eddie said. He was leaning against Richie’s side, the notch of his shoulder blade pressed into the hollow of Richie’s shoulder. He pointed. “There’s Orion’s Belt.”

Richie peered upward. Without his glasses, the stars were lost in the blackness of the sky. Only the largest were visible to him – bright, lonely diamonds scattered sparsely across the abyss. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said.

“Oh,” Eddie said. “Shit, sorry. I forgot you aren’t wearing your glasses.”

Richie shrugged, and felt Eddie’s shoulder move against his. “It’s alright. Without my glasses I don’t have to look at your ugly mug ruining the view. Besides, isn’t Orion’s Belt just like, a line?”

Eddie flicked Richie’s knee and drew the corner of the blanket around himself. He was shivering, so Richie didn’t protest when he pressed himself closer to Richie’s side. “Yeah, sort of,” he admitted. “But the whole constellation is really cool. You can always see his belt, which is the brightest part, but you can usually see his head and shoulders too.” He pointed once more, tracing his finger through the air. “And that’s where his sword and bow and arrow are – there’s too much light to see them tonight though. It has to be darker for them to be visible.”

He shivered again.

“Here,” Richie said. He lifted the blanket and slung his arm over Eddie’s shoulder before settling the blanket back in place. “Mrs. K would kill me if you caught a cold out here.”

Eddie burrowed into his warmth, managing to scowl at Richie as he did so. “I know you’re joking,” he said, “but there’s a lot of diseases you can catch from being outside in the cold, okay. Your immune system has to work twice as hard because it has to fight off bacteria _and_ keep your temperature up, and so even really weak diseases that your body could normally fight off, like colds and the flu and whatever, those can fuck you up and okay _why are you laughing?_ These are real concerns, Richie!”

Richie buried his nose in the blanket, sniggering.

“Diseases are easily transmitted!” Eddie defended. “Springtime is when these sorts of bacteria and viruses affect most people! It’s not funny, asshole! Just ‘cause I have a vested interest in not blowing snot out of my nose for the next two weeks—”

“Alright! Alright, I get it, Eds,” Richie said, grinning. “Cold equals disease. I’m sorry for doubting you. Take a breath before you pass out.”

“Asshole,” Eddie muttered, but he didn’t move away from Richie’s side.

They fell into a comfortable silence, looking up at the stars and listening to the nighttime rustles in the grass. A cold wind blew across the lawn, making the branches of the trees rattle like the bony knock of dice. Richie thought that he could hear an owl, somewhere. Its soft hooting drifted between the trees, then stopped. Maybe it had taken flight. Maybe it had gone to bed. Richie rubbed at his tired eyes with chilled fingers.

The breeze rushed across the porch, ruffling Eddie’s hair and blowing curls into Richie’s face. Richie could smell his shampoo. It was the same, clean smell that he remembered from Stan’s bathroom. He remembered Eddie’s hands, gentle as they skimmed over his bare back, and Eddie’s heat as he stood close to Richie, wiping away the blood as though Richie was something to be protected. Cherished. Eddie’s shoulder was a burn of heat beneath Richie’s arm. He’d fit himself against Richie so casually, like they did this every day. Nothing unusual. Just another day, snuggling up to your friend. Just another day, where Richie felt himself pressing back into Eddie’s easy warmth, savoring the mold of Eddie’s body against his own.

Was Eddie right, about diseases and the cold? Probably not. It was probably a crock of shit. Eddie got worked up over _hay fever_. His mother had told him too many crazy things over the years. Eddie probably thought that moonlight could give you cancer.

_(Hey there, flamer)_

Richie’d heard somewhere that homosexuality was a sickness. From Maggie? Likely. Not that it mattered.

It had been cold the night that Hockstetter had dragged him out to the dump and told Richie to _watch the teeth. No biting._ It had been cold when he’d pushed Richie to the ground, after. Richie remembered the icy points of gravel as they jabbed into his burned palm.

Before he could think about it, Richie pulled his arm away from Eddie and scooted back. Frigid air rushed into the space where Eddie had been.

“The fuck, Richie?” Eddie yelped. He fell sideways, catching himself against the porch stairs with a sound of angry surprise, and his quick temper had him on his feet and in Richie’s face before Richie could retreat. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

Richie shook his head. “Sorry, I—oh fuck Eds, I’m sorry.” He bent and began fussing with the blanket, tucking it around Eddie’s shoulders. He kept the blanket between himself and Eddie’s skin.

Eddie slapped at his hands, but Richie yanked away before they could touch.

“Richie, you’re gonna freeze without a blanket!” Eddie snapped. “You’re wearing pajamas! Why are you being weird all of a sudden?” He grabbed at Richie’s wrist to drag him back down to the step.

Richie dodged. All at once, the thought of Eddie – of anyone – touching him seemed like the worst prospect in the world. His dream burst to the forefront of his mind, and

_(“You think you can get rid of me?”)_

he could feel Hockstetter’s hands in his hair, he could feel the stretch of his jaw, the unbearable pain in his throat—

What had he been thinking? _What had he been thinking?_ He’d let his friends hug him. He’d let them sleep in the same _bed_ as him, like nothing was wrong, like Richie’s very presence wasn’t toxic. Like he hadn’t been disgusting, even before Hockstetter had found the scar on his chest.

_(“It’s all you’re good for.”)_

Hockstetter had been right. Richie was _made _for it. He was bluster without substance, crying out for attention. A doll stuffed with disease, stitched up by a curse. Fuck, he was _begging_ to be used. What did that mean for Eddie? For Stan? For Bill? Could this… thing that was wrong with Richie rub off on them, somehow? Had the crazy in Hockstetter rubbed off on _him?_

But, no. Richie hadn’t needed any extra sickness. Hockstetter had known at once. His mother had known since he’d been _born_. Was it written in invisible ink across his forehead? How could his friends not have seen it? How could Eddie not have noticed, when Richie followed him around like a yapping dog, stealing touches whenever he got the chance? His friends must have known. Worse, Richie realized. What if they kept him around _because_ of it?

His thoughts spun with no control, a train that had jumped its track.

What if they wanted the same thing from him that Hockstetter did? Now that Hockstetter had broken him in, what was stopping them from taking their own turns with him? Maybe they’d just been waiting for someone to go first, maybe they all were just waiting for something like this to happen so they could get in on those sloppy seconds, no worries about being gay when all you were using was a blow-up doll that couldn’t—

Something hard and plastic jammed between his teeth.

On reflex, Richie sucked in a surprised gasp, just as Eddie pulled the trigger on his aspirator. A blast of medicinal spray coated the back of Richie’s throat and cooled his lungs.

Richie jolted backwards, coughing. “What the fuck!” he shouted.

Eddie peered at him anxiously. He was standing close to Richie on the top step with his big doe’s eyes wide and scared, the whites catching the moonlight. The blanket lay crumpled on the step behind him. “Sorry!” Eddie squeaked.

“What the fuck, Eds!” Richie shouted again. He coughed, but the world was already coming back into a sharper clarity. When the hell had his vision started fuzzing out? His lips tingled.

“Sorry!” Eddie whispered. “I couldn’t think what else to do! You started fucking hyperventilating, okay? And when I tried to get you to breathe with me, it was like you didn’t even hear me!”

Richie sagged against the porch railing. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You were talking to me?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Eddie watched him nervously, his hands flexing around his aspirator. “It looked like you were having a panic attack.”

“I—” Richie wanted his glasses. He wanted the excuse to push them up his nose, to hide behind their thick lenses. “Fuck. M’sorry, Eds. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Eddie said at once. “It’s not your fault.”

Richie winced. How the hell could he have thought those things, about his friends? Stupid. He was stupid. Shame churned in the pit of his stomach. “I don’t think I like panic attacks,” he mumbled.

“Nobody does.”

“I’m sorry I freaked out at you.”

Eddie hesitated. “Do you… Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nope,” Richie said. He popped the ‘p’ as obnoxiously as he could.

Eddie sighed. He picked up the blanket at held it out. “Here,” he said. “You’re gonna freeze, you idiot.”

“What? No, Eds, you use it,” Richie protested. “You’ve got like, a quarter-inch of body fat, max. That’s shit for insulation.”

Eddie shook his head. “We can both use it, duh.” He moved forward to sling the blanket over Richie’s shoulders, but Richie cringed back, bumping up against the railing. Eddie stopped.

“You shouldn’t touch me, Eds,” Richie said.

“Oh, for the love of—not this shit again!”

“I’m serious.”

Eddie crossed his arms, glaring. “So am I. Rich, you’re not… you’re not _tainted_, or whatever the fuck. What are you so afraid of?”

_Everything, _Richie thought. He stared into Eddie’s mule-stubborn face. Anxiety crushed down inside him. There were too many thoughts, too many worries

_(“It’s all you’re good for”)_

for him to spit out. He opened his mouth, ready for—a joke, something, anything—but what he said was, “he didn’t use protection, Eds.”

Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

Abruptly, Richie found himself looking anywhere but at Eddie. He gazed over the lawn, at the branches that twitched and rustled in the cold breeze. “Hockstetter,” he said. “He didn’t… he didn’t use protection, when he…”

For a moment, the wind blew in the silence. “Oh,” Eddie said, in a small voice.

“What if I’m sick now?” Richie said. It was close enough to his fears to be the truth. He kept his eyes on the distant trees. He didn’t want to see what expression Eddie was wearing, the same kid who wiped down the swings before sitting down because ‘it only takes one drop of AIDs blood guys. One!’

“I don’t know where the fuck else Hockstetter has been,” Richie said. “I don’t know—I don’t want to be sick, Eds.” He blinked, and a tear slipped down the side of his nose. He brushed it away, before Eddie could notice.

A hand closed around his own. Richie startled, pulling away on instinct, but Eddie wasn’t letting go. He held on, even when Richie shook his arm to dislodge him, hissing, “Eddie, what the fuck? Weren’t you listening to anything I just said—”

Eddie clamped his other hand around Richie’s wrist and forced him to look into Eddie’s face. “Richie,” he said, and he sounded so firm that Richie stopped trying to free himself.

“What are you doing?” Richie asked again.

Eddie swallowed. His face was small and scared in the moonlight, but he tightened his hold on Richie regardless. “You’re not sick,” he said.

“You don’t fucking know that, okay, fuck off—”

“You’re not,” Eddie repeated, shaking his head. “You’re not, okay? I don’t believe it. Not after everything. If you haven’t gone through enough, then it’s bullshit. Everything’s bullshit. You aren’t going to be sick, on top of everything else. I will fucking fight God himself if I have to, you are _not_ sick, Richie. There are places we can go, we’ll get you checked out, and then, when there’s _nothing wrong with you_, I’m gonna throw a big goddamn fuck-you party at the universe. I’m not scared to touch you! And if you think that I’m going to stop hugging my best friend, after all the other crap Hockstetter left us with, then you can fuck right off too.”

Richie stared down at Eddie, at this tiny spitfire kid glowing in the nighttime air.

Eddie stared back at him. In his eyes, there was something like a challenge. Something like an invitation.

“You really mean that, Eds?” Richie said at last.

“I really do.”

They stared at each other in the close, secretive shadows.

Richie cracked a grin. “So, how do you know where these testing places are? Are you trying to tell me something, Eddie-bear? You’ve got the clap, I fucking knew it.”

Eddie pinched Richie’s wrist, hard. “God, you are _such_ an asshole,” he complained.

“Ouch! Jesus, are you trying to damage the goods? I’m delicate!”

Eddie let go of Richie’s hand, and Richie only had a moment to mourn his absence before Eddie was picking up the blanket and holding it out.

“You good to share?” he said. “Before we both freeze?”

Richie took the blanket. He and Eddie sat on the top step, and Richie arranged the blanket over their shoulders. Eddie leaned back against Richie’s side, and Richie tensed before Eddie whacked his leg. Richie forced himself to relax.

Eddie wasn’t scared to touch him. If the biggest hypochondriac on the East Coast could lay against him without flinching, then Richie wouldn’t be scared either. Richie gritted his teeth and threaded his arm around Eddie’s back. Fuck Hockstetter. Their heat mingled together under the blanket.

“Check it out,” Eddie said. He pointed upwards at the stars. “It’s Cassiopeia’s Chair.”

“I still don’t have my glasses, asshole.”

“It’s the one that looks like a big **W**, dipshit.”

“What part of ‘no glasses’ aren’t you getting? And who the hell designs a chair like a W anyway?”

“I dunno, it’s from mythology. I think.”

“The sex I had with your mom last night deserves to be in mythology. You sure Cassi-whatever’s Chair wasn’t actually a sex swing?”

“I hate you. I hate you so much. No, stop— I don’t want you pinching my cheeks, asswad!”

~

On Monday, Beverly Marsh slid her cafeteria tray onto the table beside Bill’s lunch and used her foot to shove Eddie farther down the bench so that she could cram herself between them.

“Ms. Gray!” Richie cried, delighted. “Just in time! Help me tell Eddie that a walrus would _totally_ win in a fight against a killer whale.”

Bev frowned at him. Even at a shout, the rumble of a chattering high school crowd with summer around the corner was almost enough to drown out Richie’s voice.

“Don’t be dumb, Tozier,” she said. “Killer whales like, literally hunt walruses.”

“Walri,” Eddie put in.

“That’s not the p-plural of walrus, Eddie,” Bill said. “Let it g-go.”

“It is too!”

“I’m pretty sure walruses are one of killer whales’ natural prey animals,” Bev said. “Whatever their plural is.”

“What!” Richie reared back, pressing a hand to his chest. “I thought you were gonna back me up, Marsh! Traitor. Why the hell do they have those massive tusks, then?”

Beverly shrugged. “Sex appeal? I think they might use them to fight other males during mating season or something.”

“How the hell do you know so much about walruses?” Richie said.

“Walri,” Eddie insisted.

“Some of us use our brain power for more that just _Street Fighter_, Rich,” Stan said dryly. His nose was buried in a thick book with an old, spotted leather cover, but he peered at Richie over the top of it and raised an eyebrow.

Richie squawked indignantly.

“What’s that?” Beverly asked. She gestured to the book. “Why’re you reading a textbook during lunch? I thought the English final wasn’t until next week.”

Stan’s cheeks pinked. He lowered the book, shooting a quick glance at Bill. “Oh, no,” he said. “This isn’t, um. It’s not for school. It’s sort of, um. It’s a personal research project.”

Richie snorted and made a grab for the book, but Stan snatched it out of reach. “Nerd alert, am I right?” he said, snickering. “Stanny, school’s almost out! Why are you adding on more work for summer?”

“I wanted to,” Stan snapped. He stuck a folded piece of paper between the pages to mark his place and shut the book. “It’s no big deal. Bill and Eddie said they wanted to help too, you know. If I’m a nerd, that means they’re nerds, which means _you’re _a nerd too, Rich, since you hang out with us.”

“Not true!” Richie spluttered. “Everyone knows I’m the coolest member of this group! Except for Bev, but she doesn’t count because she’s the newbie.”

Beverly flipped him off. “I’m way cooler than you, Trashmouth. Don’t forget it.”

The curse tingled. Richie tossed her a sloppy salute, grinning. “No, ma’am!”

“Well,” Bev said. “If you guys are doing research, would you like some help with it?” Her face was thoughtful. “I’m not much for research, but I know a kid who’s a whiz with that sort of thing. I did a project in social studies class with him, and he got us an A+.”

Bill and Eddie looked at one another, taken aback.

“I mean, I g-guess,” Bill said. “More eyes a-are better, but—”

“No problem.” Bev got to her feet. “He’s cool, I promise. He’s kind of shy though, so be nice, okay?” She scowled around at them, ending on Richie, who fluttered his eyelashes innocently.

“Are you sure he’d want to help?” Eddie asked. “It’s almost summer. I doubt he wants an extra project on top of final exams.”

Bev waved her hand. “Nah, I don’t think he’d mind. He seems, well—I think he’d like the chance to meet some people, I guess. But I’ll go get him and ask. What’s your project on?”

“Uh,” Stan stuttered. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “It’s uh. We’re studying, um, curses.”

His face went red as Richie turned to stare at him.

“Got it,” Bev said. “Well, Ben likes to hang out in the library during lunch. I’ll run grab him.”

She vanished between the tables, leaving her lunch tray beside Bill’s.

As soon as she was gone, Richie propped his chin in his hand and fixed Stan with a pointed glare. “Curses, huh?” he asked. “It wouldn’t happen to be obedience curses in particular, would it?”

Stan firmed his jaw and met Richie’s gaze. “So what if it is?” he said.

Richie blew out his breath and shoved his glasses up onto his forehead so that he could rub his eyes. “You guys—” he began.

“What?” Eddie said. “Did you really think any of us were going to let this go?”

“You’re wasting your time!” Richie said. He reached into his lunch bag – packed for him by Andrea that morning – and pulled out his sandwich. “You can’t lift curses, everyone knows that. You’re not gonna find a way to break it, or whatever you guys are hoping for.” He unwrapped his sandwich and took a large, spiteful bite, chewing obnoxiously with his mouth open.

“No o-o-offense, Rich,” Bill said. “B-but that’s bull. I d-d-don’t believe—_we _don’t b-believe that there’s no w-w-way t-to lift this th-thing.”

Richie took another bite and stuck his tongue out, showing them the mess of half-chewed sandwich.

Eddie hit him on the shoulder. “We’re serious, here!” he said. “We’re not gonna let you live like this forever. No fucking way. Stan’s already been down to the library a bunch of times this week to look through the books they have there, and Bill and I are gonna start helping as soon as we finish our Trig final without flunking.”

“God, I h-h-h-hate Trig,” Bill muttered.

Richie shook his head. “How the hell did I not notice you going to the library before?” he asked Stan.

Stan gave him a _very_ unimpressed look, one that made it clear he doubted whether Richie had any brain cells at all. “I literally told you whenever I went over there,” he said to Richie. “I even invited you along a few times, in case you wanted to do any studying there.”

“I thought _you_ were studying!” Richie said. “That’s what libraries are for!”

Stan shared an exasperated glance with Eddie.

“Whatever,” Richie said. “Point is, you guys know this isn’t going anywhere, right? You can’t break this thing. My mom used to tell me that all the time, whenever I’d complain if she made me clean my room or whatever: ‘get used to it Richard, it’s a part of your life!’” He mimicked Maggie’s throaty voice.

“I don’t buy it,” Eddie said stubbornly. “Maybe that’s what your mom thinks, but you’ve got us on your side now. There’s got to be something about lifting curses, even if it’s hard to find. Didn’t you ever look yourself?”

Richie shrugged. “Nah, I never did. Not allowed.”

“Your research skills suck anyway,” Stan mumbled.

Richie swatted him on the arm. “Fuck you, Stanniekins.”

Bill leaned forward in his seat. “Th-they’re right, Rich,” he said, and he sounded so confident that Richie was almost tempted to believe him. “There h-has to b-b-be something, a-and w-w-we’re gonna f-find it. We’re n-n-n-not gonna l-let you live w-with that f-fucking scar any l-l-longer than you h-h-have to.”

Emotion swelled behind Richie’s ribs, too complicated for him to even begin to parse. He looked down, grinding his teeth together so that he wouldn’t do anything embarrassing, like scream or sob or some shit.

“Richie?” Stan said gently. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Richie said. He twisted his fingers into the hem of his shirt. He really needed to break the habit; all his shirts were getting too stretched out. “Just—it’s been awhile, since I’ve thought about what it would be like. Without the curse. I—” He broke off. His fingers flexed in his shirt.

When he spoke, it was so quiet that only Stan, sitting beside him, heard it. “I don’t want to get my hopes up. If there’s nothing.”

Stan bumped Richie’s shoulder with his own. “We’re going to find a way,” he told Richie. His voice was just as low. “Okay? We’ll find something, and it’s going to work.”

Richie cleared his throat and nudged Stan’s shoulder in return. “You all are a bunch of stubborn bastards,” he said.

“No shit,” Eddie said. He kicked Richie’s foot under the table. “You’re just figuring that out?”

“Th-there’s Bev,” Bill said, pointing. “Someo-one’s with h-her.”

“Oh, hey, I know that kid!” Richie said. “I think he transferred in last semester?”

Eddie squinted. “Is he the guy who’s always listening to New Kids on the Block?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to everyone who left kudos and reviews <3 We only have one chapter left!? For real this time!? Can you guys believe that this was supposed to be a 3 chapter story, and it turned into this monster. Sheesh.
> 
> The last part is really more of an epilogue than anything, so it's probably going to be shorter than most of the chapters so far. I'm gonna shoot to have it published by the 26th of January :) This chapter would probably have made an appearance sooner, but I got an idea for a Reddie one-shot and had to write out a chunk of that, whoops. Sorry for the delay, but also if you guys like stories that deal with Richie and his experience with the Deadlights in Chapter 2, I'll probably be posting that in the next few weeks as well!
> 
> Feel free to let me know thoughts or questions in the comments :) See you all soon!


	12. Epilogue — 1991: The Birthday Party (Reprise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I— Jesus.” Richie shook his head. “You guys are the best, you know that?”  
“We know,” Eddie said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, guys. Enjoy <3
> 
> Trigger Warnings: None for this chapter

_~ 2 Months Later ~_

After Saturday Temple, blinking the dimness of the synagogue from their eyes, Richie and Stan winged into town with their shadows stitched to the wheels of their bikes. It was mid-July. The sun screamed down at them, shimmering heat off the sidewalks and doing its best to melt their tires right into the asphalt of the road. The sky was blue and cloudless. Smells of dry leaves and car exhaust hung in the air, thick enough to choke on.

Richie yanked his handlebars to jump his bike up to the sidewalk, and the frame shuddered beneath him as his wheels absorbed the impact. For a moment, he rode side by side with a red sedan, his distorted reflection racing beside him in the metal, before the sedan pulled ahead and turned onto Third Street. Behind him, he could hear the rapid _clickclickclick _of Stan’s spokes as he shifted gears.

Richie didn’t have to ride double with Stan anymore. They weren’t sharing a bedroom either; Richie had moved his stuff to Don’s cleared-out office the day the Urises received a letter from the Derry Municipal Courts, announcing that their change of guardianship request had been approved. Stan had wrapped him up in a bear hug, and Officer Nell had personally escorted Richie to the Tozier house to collect his belongings. 

Maggie and Wentworth hadn’t been home. Maybe they’d been told by Officer Nell to make themselves scarce. Maybe they’d been in New York. They usually took a trip down to Manhattan, this time of year.

Whatever. Richie had been glad to grab his stuff and go.

The events of the spring seemed very distant, now, as he and Stan rode their bikes through the morning summer sunlight. Stan came up beside him with his blonde curls bouncing wildly, tugged this way and that by the wind. A car honked at them as they cut through the intersection of Kansas Street and West Broadway.

“I’ll race you to the library!” Richie yelled. “Loser has to buy us ice cream sodas!” “Get ready to pony up, then!” Stan shouted back. His tires whirred as he stood on his pedals. The two of them shot down Up Mile Hill, weaving through traffic with the wind howling in their ears.

“Are you nuts, kid?” someone shouted, as Richie threaded the narrow gap between two cars. 

Stan nearly went flying as his front wheel struck an uneven slab of concrete, and he had to jerk his bike up onto the sidewalk in order to avoid rear-ending himself into the car in front of him.

They blurred past Freeze’s, and the new Angie’s Soda Fountain where both Richie and Bill had managed to pick up a few shifts bussing tables. The canal flowed by to their left, its waters slowed to a sluggish trickle in the summer months. Through a break in the trees, the silver flash of Paul Bunyan’s plastic axe winked from its spot outside of City Hall. The Derry Library came into view, and the two of them rode side by side, their faces red from effort, until Stan put on a burst of speed and pulled his bike hard to the right. Richie was forced to brake, swearing a blue streak, to keep from crashing into Stan’s rear tire.

“Cheating doesn’t count!” he shouted, but Stan was already up on the sidewalk, dismounting from his bike and readjusting his yarmulke with a smug air.

“I didn’t hear that in the rules,” he said, as Richie skidded his bike to a stop at the curb. “Where’s my soda?”

Richie flipped him off. “You don’t deserve a soda. That lady stepped in front of me over by McCarron Park. I would’ve won if she hadn’t been in the way!”

“You’re just trying to take away my victory,” Stan said. He and Richie dropped their bikes at the rack and headed up the library’s front steps. “What, you broke already? I thought you worked on Thursday, you couldn’t have spent all your money in two days. Or did you spend the whole night at the arcade?”

Richie clutched at his chest, staggering as though he’d taken a bullet through the side. “Stanley, how could you?” he gasped. “All that money at the arcade? It was the _movies_, you ignorant swine. Don’t you know that _Terminator Two: Judgement Day_ premiered last week?” He took the stairs two at a time to beat Stan to the top, and Stan snorted a laugh as Richie opened the library door and swept Stan through with a ridiculous, extravagant bow.

The library was cool compared to the bright heat outside. Before noon on Saturday, a few patrons were milling around the shelves, but not many. Two gentlemen with liver-spotted hands were perusing the newspaper racks. A younger woman in a long skirt passed them on her way up to the checkout desk, her arms weighted down with books. In the air hung the sweet, starchy scent of old paper. Bronze beams of sunlight slanted down through the high windows. They soaked the shelves in a warm, twilight glow, limning the worn wood with lines of burnished gold.

“I’ve got another shift on Wednesday,” Richie whispered. They started up the main corridor, passing dusty, rustling shelves of books. “You’ll get your soda then, you loan shark.”

“I don’t think you know what a loan shark is,” Stan muttered back.

They passed the service desk, and both Stan and Richie waved as they saw Mike Hanlon’s familiar profile standing on the other side, helping the young woman to check out her books. Mike saw them and grinned. He mouthed something that Richie couldn’t catch.

Mike was an aide at the library — he’d started back in November, he’d told them. It had been the end of the harvest season, and his father had grudgingly allowed Mike the job since farm chores had been finished for the year. Mike had fallen in love with the simple peace of the library, the whispering _shush _of turning pages, and the silence that lay between the stacks when winter snows grew frost over the vaulted windows. When spring came around again, Mike had been allowed to stay on at the library, provided he didn’t miss planting.

Richie liked Mike. He had a quiet calm about him, a self-assurance that made him easy to get along with. They’d started chatting at the beginning of summer, when the Losers would blow through the stacks like an unexpected storm front. Richie and Beverly had a habit of pulling books willy-nilly off the shelves, and Ben Hanscom would follow behind, straightening bent spines and replacing fallen books. Mike had let his curiosity get the best of him. On their third library visit, he’d asked Bill what six other kids were doing in the library so soon after school had ended.

According to Bill, Mike’s eyes had lit up when Bill had explained.

Mike was as big a nerd as Ben Hanscom, as it turned out. He’d taken to checking in on them after his shifts, listening to their research ideas and sharing some of his own. One day, he’d brought down his father’s history of Old Derry to show them. He’d pointed at pictures of the Standpipe’s construction, explaining how, back in those days, construction workers would bring heat charms to work during the winter and frost charms during the summer. Several pages on, he’d described the explosion of the Ironworks Factory in 1908 with a soft, sad voice.

Mike was working as they passed by the service desk, so Richie and Stan didn’t stop to talk. Stan mouthed something in response, and Richie blew Mike a kiss — Mike caught it with an expression of exaggerated disgust — and the two of them took one of the metal, spiral staircases leading up to the second floor. Their footsteps echoed in hollow clangs through the beams that supported the library roof.

“What’d he say?” Richie asked Stan.

“Ben’s already upstairs,” Stan murmured. He shook his head, smiling. “That kid’s got one hell of a work ethic.”

“We should buy him some diapers,” Richie joked. “Then he wouldn’t have to take breaks for stupid things like taking a piss.”

They found Ben in the small thaumaturgy section, tucked away in the far recesses of the balcony shelves. Ben was sitting cross-legged on the floor, with a towering pile of books beside him and a scattering of three more laid open around him. He glanced up as he heard them approach and favored them with a shy smile.

“Hey, guys,” he said.

“Hey, Haystack,” Richie said. “You’ve got enough books there to build an igloo. Should we go get some more to finish out the ceiling before the snows come?”

He and Stan sat on the floor beside Ben, and Ben put a finger in the book in front of him to mark his place before closing it.

“I suppose there are a lot,” he said, glancing at the stack beside him. “A whole bunch came in this morning, the ones I requested from the Bangor Library? Here, check this one out.” He pulled a book from the top of the stack and passed it to Stan. “If you look at Chapter Seven, it describes how obedience curses are usually cast. They’re complicated, but the author breaks down their components and some variations on the spell.”

Stan opened the book, frowning. “That’s cool and all,” he said. “But you know we’re looking for how to _break_ curses, Ben.”

“I know,” Ben said. He smiled and lifted the book he’d been reading. “But this one talks all about curse construction. The author gives a few examples on how, if you know the casting method and the ingredients used, you can sometimes unwind a spell.”

“Really?” Richie asked. He tugged the book out of Ben’s hands and into his lap. “That’s pretty neat, actually.” He scanned the page, and when he looked back up at Ben, he saw the pleased flush that had colored Ben’s face.

If Richie ever adopted a dog, he imagined that it would behave somewhat like Ben Hanscom.

Ben had not so much joined their group as been adopted by it, like a lovable and sodden puppy picked out of a box on the curb. He was a kind, polite kid, who always said “please” and “thank you” to the waitress when they went to the soda fountain to get fries and drinks. If someone complimented him, he blushed down to the collar of his shirt, and wouldn’t look anyone in the eyes for two minutes afterward. His hair was brown and was forever flopping into his eyes, no matter how many times Eddie told him that _hair gel is a thing, Ben_.

Oddly, despite Ben’s relative newness to the group, he had taken to their research with a single-minded focus. Richie thought he knew why Ben had thrown himself into the project. He’d seen Ben watching Beverly with his head ducked and his cheeks rosy red, but if Ben had a crush on Bev, none of the other Losers had mentioned it. It would’ve been too cruel, because all of them genuinely _liked_ Ben. Ben caught enough shit from other kids without more teasing from his friends.

He was a large guy. His gut hung down over his waistline, and his face was round and pudgy. His soft-spoken manner made him an easy target for kids like Henry Bowers and Victor Criss, who’d given him the nickname “Tits” almost as soon as he’d transferred to Derry High. Yet, at the beginning of June, Ben had confessed to Bill and Richie that he’d started to go on runs in the mornings. He was sick of the constant bullying, the constant looking over his shoulder for the assholes who liked to pinch his stomach and laugh.

Even a month into his workouts, Richie could already see some of the changes in the sharpening of Ben’s jaw, and the way his clothes hung loosely off his frame.

Stan’s eyes were narrowed in thought as he mulled over Ben’s finding. “What’s the catch?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Ben said.

Stan shoved Richie away and took the book himself, skimming a finger down the page. “I mean, it sounds too easy,” he said, “and there’s always a catch. Remember that book that Bill found, which talked all about how to break curses using mental force?”

“The one with all the meditation and psychic chains?” Richie said.

“Yeah,” Stan said, “and then we read the last chapter, when the author explained that it’d _probably _break the curse but it’d _definitely_ drive the person insane to do it?”

“There doesn’t have to be a catch,” Ben protested.

“There’s always a catch,” Stan muttered. “No one’s going crazy if I can help it.”

Ben held out his hands, and Stan passed him the book. “Well, I haven’t read too much of this one yet,” Ben said. “So, I don’t know too much about the theory, but I’ll keep reading and see what it says.”

“Which books haven’t you got to?” Richie asked.

Ben extracted five or six books from the stack beside him, and Richie made a show of pushing his glasses up his nose and rolling up his invisible sleeves before he and Stan dug in.

The three of them read for over an hour, not talking much. Occasionally, one of them would point out a certain passage to the boy next to him, or read out a particularly interesting section, but for the most part they allowed the library’s warm silence to envelope them.

A little after noon, footsteps echoed on the spiral staircase that led down to the first floor. Richie looked up from the book he was reading — it wasn’t terribly helpful, only talking about bad-luck and ill-will curses without any mention of obedience, but Richie was interested despite himself — in time to see Mike’s dark head poke into view. Richie grinned, and Mike grinned back, climbing the last few stairs and heading towards them.

“Hey Mike,” Stan said.

“Hey guys,” Mike said. “Find anything good today?”

Ben showed him the same book he’d shown Stan and Richie, and Mike sat down on the floor to listen as he explained. Richie allowed Ben’s voice to fade to the background. He laid his own book down, looking out the windows toward the library lawn. The grass was a vivid, emerald green in the sunlight. He wondered if Hockstetter could see the grass, stuck in whatever cell in Juniper Hill with some crazy son-of-a-bitch for a roommate. He hoped not.

When Ben was done, Mike tapped his fingers against his chin. “That’s a pretty cool idea,” he mused. “I think we might have a book that talks about something like that. Unmaking spells. It’s down in the archives, but I could pull it up for you guys on my next shift.”

“Are you done for the day then, Mikey?” Richie asked, and Mike nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s been slow, so Mrs. Perry let me go early. I hadn’t seen you guys come down yet, so I figured I’d come up and check on how y’all were doing.”

Stan shrugged. “Slow but steady,” he said. His forehead was pinched with frustration. “I know magic isn’t a hot subject, but I thought there’d be more books on curse breaking. I mean, it’s almost the twenty-first century.”

Richie clapped him on the shoulder, putting on a swaggering, radio announcer’s Voice. “The March of Progress isn’t marching fast enough, according to resident Stanley-the-Man Uris! New vaccines and new machines are all well and good, but what about our literature? Shameful! says Mr. Uris. We go now to a live interview with Mr. Uris himself to shed some light on the issue.” He held out an imaginary microphone to Stan, who batted him away with a scowl.

“I’m just saying,” Stan grumbled. “I thought we would’ve at least found something to _try_ by now.”

Richie nudged Stan’s shoulder with his own, digging his fingers into Stan’s side to wipe the look of dejection off of Stan’s face.

Stan mustered up a smile for him, and Richie stole a glance at Mike and Ben. The two of them were politely pretending to read the book in Ben’s lap. Neither intruded onto Stan and Richie’s conversation, but Richie knew they couldn’t help but to have heard. They weren’t stupid.

After all these weeks, they had to be suspicious. Twice, when their research had struck a dead end, Eddie had stalked out of the library, his eyes wet and his shoulders tight. Mike had chased after him the second time, only to slink back after Eddie had nearly bitten his head off. Richie had apologized to Mike, even as Stan and Bill had barricaded themselves away on the library’s clunky computer to keep working, the two of them clustered around the lone screen.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this wasn’t idle summer research, after that incident. Yet, astonishingly, neither Mike nor Ben had pushed for answers. Their parents must have impressed manners upon them in a way that Maggie hadn’t bothered with. Richie would’ve stuck his nose in a question like this without hesitation.

“It’s only been a couple of months,” Richie told Stan. “This is hard shit. There’s a reason people don’t go around breaking curses left and right. It’s not like we have a road map to follow.”

Stan grimaced. “I guess,” he said. He put his book to the side and stood up, dusting off his pants. “Either way, we’ve done enough work for the day. We’ve gotta go or we’re gonna be late.”

“Shoot, you’re right!” Ben said as he checked his watch. “It’ll take us a bit to get over there.”

“Where are you all off to?” Mike asked, watching as Ben began gathering up the books he wanted to take with and setting aside those that he didn’t think were useful. 

“We’re meeting Bill, Bev, and Eddie down by the quarry,” Richie said, getting up as well. He held out a hand to Mike, and a wicked grin spread across his face as Mike took it. “Say, Mikey, you wanna come along? You can jump off the cliff with us like the secret lunatic you are. Tell me you don’t have chores or anything that your dad needs you for?”

Mike smiled and let Richie pull him to his feet. “I’m free for the rest of the day, I’ll come along. You guys really jump? Off the south side where it’s all steep?”

“Bev did it first,” Ben said, his voice hazy with admiration. “It was amazing.”

“We’d better get going,” Stan said. “Eddie’ll probably throw a fit if we’re late.”

Richie slung his bag over his shoulder and snapped off a salute. “Stan’s right, gentlemen, step to!” He ushered Ben towards the stairs, clicking his heels together like some absurd army captain. “Hup hup, Hanscom, that’s it! Shoulders back, chest up!”

“It’s not too late to back out,” Stan muttered to Mike. “Just remember that you agreed to spend the afternoon with _that_.” He gestured to Richie, who was now throwing salutes with both hands and herding poor Ben along.

At Stan’s comment, Richie whipped around, face squinched. “Order in the ranks, I say! You’ve got something to tell me, Uris?”

Stan rolled his eyes at Mike. “Sir, no sir,” he said dryly, and followed Richie and Ben down the spiral staircase.

~

Bev was, of course, the first to jump from the top of the quarry. Wearing only a bra and panties, with her red hair streaming behind her like a banner, she threw her arms over her head and charged off the side of the cliff. She let out a loud, screaming whoop as she fell, and Mike winced as she hit the water.

“Damn, girl,” he said under his breath.

Bill smirked. “That’s wh-what I said the f-f-first t-time too,” he said. His auburn hair burned in the sunlight as he launched himself off the ledge.

“You guys really _weren’t_ kidding,” Mike said.

Richie clapped him on the shoulder. “Live fast, die young, Mikey. If it’s good enough for Humphrey Bogart, I ain’t gonna argue.”

“You guys know how easy it would be to hit the side on the way down, right?” Eddie asked. “It’s so dumb we still do this. Hitting water at a high speed is basically like hitting concrete.”

“Eds, are those feathers growing on your face? I didn’t realize you were turning into a chicken.”

Eddie stuck out his tongue at Richie. Quick as a whip, Richie grabbed the tip of it, and Eddie jerked back, squeaking. “Oh god—gross! That’s disgusting, Richie! When was the last time you washed your hands?”

Ben laughed behind them while Eddie spit frantically into the dirt.

Bill’s voice reverberated up the quarry wall. “What the hell is t-taking you guys s-s-so long?” he shouted. Richie peeked over the edge, and saw him and Bev swimming in circles, waiting. He cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Your mom showed up!” he yelled back. “She was feeling lonely, so we banged out a quickie!”

“Beep beep, a-asshole!”

Richie cackled and stepped up to the ledge. Sand and rocks pressed against the soles of his feet, warmed by the beating sun. Behind him, he could hear Eddie, still gagging, but the sound was lost in blue-green water that stretched out in front of him. The sun caught in his curly hair. He’d left his t-shirt on, to cover both the knotted curse-scar on his chest and the jagged, mostly-healed slices that Bowers had put on his back. The heat of the day seeped through the fabric and touched his skin with honeyed fingers.

Richie breathed deep. “TIMBER!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. 

The quarry walls snatched his yell and threw it back to him as he stuck his glasses in his waistband and leapt. The open air caught him. He fell for several, heart-stopping moments

_(I’m flying, Ma, look)_

until he hit the water with a crash, and cool waves closed over his head. Water stroked through his hair.

When he emerged, spraying droplets like a wet dog, Bev was paddling lazily next to him. Richie tapped her shoulder.

“Yeah?” she asked. She sat up, turning towards him, and Richie spat his mouthful of water into her face before pumping his arms in victory. Bev shrieked and fell back. Her head vanished beneath the surface for a brief second before she reappeared, spluttering.

“Tozier, you little shit!” she shouted.

Richie screeched in fear as she came after him and scrambled to hide behind Bill for protection. Bill stepped to the side, because he was a terrible friend with _no sense of loyalty_, and Bev splashed Richie in the face with her own mouthful of water.

“Foul play!” Richie yelled, wiping at his eyes as Bev swam backwards, giggling.

Ben jumped, then Eddie, and before Richie knew it, he found himself in a game of chicken against Mike and Stan. Eddie’s thighs were over his shoulders, with Richie’s arms holding Eddie’s shins so he wouldn’t fall. Stan was perched on Mike’s shoulders, and as Bill shouted “f-fight!” Richie surged forward. Eddie and Stan grappled at each other, trying to push the other off-balance.

Richie’s face was hot, despite the cold water. Eddie’s lower stomach pressed against the back of his head. His thighs flexed against Richie’s neck as he struggled to keep his balance, and Richie felt a warm tightening in his legs and stomach.

Stan shoved Eddie in the shoulder, and Richie nearly lost his grip on Eddie’s legs before finding it again. He locked his hands around Eddie’s ankles.

** _Focus_ ** _, asshole._

Across from him, Mike’s face was shining. He smiled at Richie, drops gleaming on his skin, and Richie beamed back. Mike’s smile widened. Richie had just enough time for horror to dawn before Mike spat a stream of water directly into Richie’s eyes.

Richie’s hold on Eddie slipped.

“Foul play!” he shouted again, as Eddie crashed into the water behind him. “Flag on the field!”

~

A little while later found the seven of them tired out, scattered near the shore on the far side of the quarry. Eddie, Stan, and Ben had stretched themselves out on the flat, sun-warmed rocks just above the water line. Eddie and Ben were talking quietly, and Stan had dozed off with his curly hair drying in clumps around his head. Bill and Mike were over to the side. Water lapped around their knees as they poked at a fall of rocks with a long stick, investigating whatever had drawn their interest. A lizard or a bird’s next, maybe, or a turtle.

Richie floated on his back in the water, eyes closed. He could feel a certain dryness in his cheeks, the kind that came just before a sunburn, but Richie figured he had a few minutes before he’d need to seek out shade. The sun beat deliciously on his chest and hips.

There was soft splashing nearby, and then a shadow fell across his face. Richie cracked an eye open. Beverly Marsh was standing over him, blocking the sun with her silhouette, her hair a cascade of fire around her shoulders. Water lapped at her waist.

“Ms. Gray,” Richie said.

Beverly raised an eyebrow. “You’re never gonna drop that nickname, are you?”

“Seems unlikely,” Richie agreed. He tilted his head back, feeling water creep across the top of his scalp.

“You don’t think it’s sort of a huge hint?”

“What, about your crazy mind powers?” Richie said. “Nah. She’s got red hair, you’ve got red hair. What’s more to it?”

Beverly twirled her fingers through the surface of the lake, leaving a pattern of ripples behind. “You are a huge nerd, you know that, right?”

“I’m a niche connoisseur, Bevvie,” Richie said haughtily. “Are super powers nerdy? Is being able to tear down a building with your mind nerdy? No. It’s badass.”

“It’s nerdy,” Bev said.

Richie let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Anyway, I sort of. I wanted to talk to you, about that,” Bev said. Her expression was thoughtful when Richie looked at her, and Richie felt his interest perk. Idly, he sculled himself backwards to keep his face in her shadow.

“About comics?”

“No,” Bev said. She rolled her eyes, and flicked water into Richie’s face.

“Your crazy mind powers?” Richie asked.

“Yeah,” she said. She twisted a piece of wet hair between her knuckles.

“Stan and I haven’t told anyone,” Richie said. “If that’s what you’re worried about. Well, I haven’t told anyone, but I’m pretty sure you’d have to scrape that secret out of Stan’s ass with a stick ‘cause he’s pretty good at keeping his mouth shut.”

“That’s disgusting,” Bev informed him, smiling and exasperated all at once.

“Hey, maybe Stannie’s into it. He’s gotta start experimenting sometime, you know. Lots of people like anal, so I hear. It’s very new age.”

Bev snorted. “Been thinking about anal a lot, have you?”

Richie’s balance wavered, and his sinuses stung as he inhaled a shot of water straight up his nose. He coughed, spitting water, while Bev watched him with amusement. It took a few seconds for him to get his bearings.

“Bev gets off a good one!” he choked out, as soon as he was able. “A direct hit! Do you have any ice? I need to cool off after that burn.”

“No,” Bev told him, but she was holding back a smile.

Richie relaxed into the water, allowing it to buoy him up from underneath. “A hit and run, I can respect that. Chucks aside, what else is on your mind, Bevvie?”

Bev was quiet for several moments. Richie let the silence stretch, allowing Bev the time to gather her thoughts.

“About my Gift,” Bev said at last.

“We can get you a superhero costume if you want, all you have to do is ask. I knew you’d have a thing for latex.”

Beverly ignored him. She had gone back to playing with her hair, running her hands through it and pulling out split ends to avoid meeting Richie’s eyes. “I just, uh,” she said. “For this research that we’ve been doing. I know that it’s important to you. I just wanted to say that— um, if you want, that is, and if it even works—”

“You’re not making a lot of sense, Bevvie.”

Bev huffed out a breath. “I’m just saying that, I know most of the research we’ve been doing is how the average person can break a spell, right? But if it’s, um. If it turns out that it’s easier, for someone with the Gift to break it, then I’ll do it.”

Richie stopped floating and allowed his feet to touch down on the bed of the quarry. He looked sharply at Beverly. “Who says there’s a curse we have to break?” he said.

Beverly held his gaze. Her eyes were solemn, but kind. “I’m not dumb, Richie,” she said.

“I never said you were! But we’re not—”

“I was just thinking about that article Eddie found,” she said. “About how people figured out how to modify curses? It was the one about the Haitian slave revolution, do you remember?”

“I mean yeah, but—”

“It got me thinking. I know that that article talked mostly about voodoo, but voodoo is just another type of Gift, when you think about it.” She raised her gaze to Richie’s, expression open and determined. “So, if you want, maybe I could do something like that for you, if we found out how to do it.”

Richie stared at her. All of a sudden, he was twelve years old again, standing on Stan’s lawn in a dying autumn sunset.

“Something like that for me?” he repeated. “Bevvie, I don’t—”

Beverly took his hand and held it in a gentle grip. “Richie,” she said. “I know. It’s okay.”

Richie couldn’t respond. There was a thumping in his throat, a pounding of his pulse that made it hard to breathe. He swallowed. He was expecting the familiar, metallic tinge of fear to flood his mouth, but it never came. A buzz of adrenaline tingled under his skin. He bit his lip, but, strangely, but he wasn’t scared.

He looked at Beverly. There was a scattering of freckles over her cheeks and nose. Her eyes were green in the sunlight, the color of rainwater and pale spring grass. She’d brought him a coat, once.

She’d saved his life, once.

Her fingers were strong in his hand.

“You know?” he whispered, finding his voice.

Bev gave him a small, almost apologetic smile. “I’ve always known,” she said.

“You have?” Richie gaped at her. “Since when?”

“Since that night on Kansas Street,” she said. “I— well, I didn’t know what, exactly, it was. But I could feel it. You have this… pressure around you. You know before a lightning storm, when you can feel the air get sort of heavy? It’s like that. And when Stan told me what he was researching, well.” She shrugged. “Wasn’t hard to put it together.”

“Fuck,” Richie said blankly. “Fuck, I— damn, Bev, you have the _best poker face_, holy shit. I had no idea. I bet you’d clean up in Vegas.”

Beverly blushed. “Nah,” she mumbled. “I figure it was my turn to keep your secret. You and Stan, you haven’t treated me any different, since I told you what I am. You’re my friends now. Of course I’ll help you.” She squeezed his hand and let go.

“Nuh-uh,” Richie said. He was beaming, his heart warm and spongy in his chest. “You don’t get out of a friendship confession like that with just some hand holding.” He caught Beverly up in a hug around her waist. Her arms went instinctively around his shoulders, and he half-lifted her out of the water, twirling her around as she laughed.

“You fucking sap!” she shouted.

Richie set her back on her feet and she whapped his shoulder, giggling and out of breath. She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes.

“You know,” Richie said. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think the others would care, if you told them what you can do.” He cast a glance towards the rocks. Eddie was sitting up, staring out to where Richie and Beverly were hip-deep in water. Mike and Bill were still crouching close to the tumble of boulders. As Richie watched, Mike pointed. Bill leaned forward, then jumped back, startled by whatever it was they had found.

Bev followed his gaze and smiled. “No,” she murmured. “I don’t suppose they would.” She side-eyed him. “The same goes for you, I think.”

Richie hummed. “They’re good kids,” he said. Ben had dozed off, his head pillowed on Stan’s stomach, and Richie snickered at the sight. “I’d like to tell them,” he said, after a moment. “Mike and Ben are the only two who don’t know, but I’d like to tell them.”

“I think I would too,” Bev said. She winked at Richie. “Though I guess it’ll be pretty obvious if I use _my _Gift to lift _your_ curse. Maybe we should keep it a surprise, just to see their reactions.”

“Bev,” Richie said somberly. “You are a wicked, wicked girl.”

Beverly laughed, the sound like windchimes against the rough quarry walls, and swam off towards shore. Richie watched as she pulled herself up onto the rocks and stretched out to enjoy the sun. He was thinking.

Pressure, she had said. Like the electricity before a storm. Could anyone with a bit of the Gift feel it?

Had Patrick felt it?

It didn’t matter. Not now.

Richie glanced back to the rocks as he heard a splash. Eddie had left his perch when Bev crawled up onto the rocks. He slipped into the water, his stupid, tiny shorts a shock of red against the blue, and waded out into the water to where Richie stood. He was scowling.

“Heya, Eds,” Richie said. “What’s with the pouty face?”

Eddie’s scowl deepened. “I’m not pouting,” he said.

“Uh. Okay,” Richie said, confused. “Is this ‘cause we lost the fight with Stan and Mike? Because I already explained, Mike fights way dirtier than I was expecting. He’s a librarian, for fucks sake, I didn’t know—”

“You and Beverly seem like you’re getting pretty close,” Eddie interrupted. His arms were crossed over his chest, and a line had appeared between his eyebrows.

Richie squinted at him, taken aback by his hostile tone. “What do you mean? We’re friends, Eds, duh. You’re friends with her too.”

“You have a crush on her, don’t you?” Eddie asked. He was chewing on his bottom lip, and as he spoke, he made a circular motion with his finger. “I saw that… that spinning thing. Do you like her?” His cheeks were red with sunburn. He glared over at the far side of the quarry with a forced intensity. 

Richie was bewildered. Why the hell was Eddie so mad? Did _he_ have a crush on Beverly? Richie opened and closed his mouth for several moments, searching for the right words to wipe the strange expression off of Eddie’s face. As was his habit, he found himself reaching for a joke. “My sweet Spaghetti!” he exclaimed. “There’s no need to be jealous! I would never cheat on your mom like that!”

Eddie’s glare didn’t falter. “I saw you guys hugging.”

Richie fell back in mock-horror. “Oh shit!” he shouted. “We did! What were we thinking?” He seized Eddie’s hand. “We’re practically _married _now, Eds! I’m too young to get hitched! Do I have to get a divorce lawyer? ‘Cause Angie’s does _not _pay me enough to afford a good one.”

Eddie tried and failed to yank his hand out of Richie’s grip, but Richie held tight, almost swooning over in the water. “I’ll have to drop out of school!” he cried. “I’m the man of the house now! Oh god, how’ll I support a family?”

Eddie’s lips twitched. “Oh, alright asshole. I get it, Jesus.”

Richie pressed Eddie’s hand against his own chest, staring down at Eddie with imploring eyes. “Eddie, how will I tell her father? I didn’t even get his blessing first, what a mess. Oh god, how will I tell _Ben_? His heart is gonna break!”

Eddie smacked him on the arm and finally wriggled out of Richie’s grasp. “_I get it_, sheesh. You’re so goddamn dramatic.” He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly with one hand. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have— so you _don’t_ have a crush on Beverly?”

Richie pulled a face. “Egh, no. On Bev? No way, she’s like my sister.” He slung his arm over Eddie’s shoulders. “Besides, Spaghetti-man, everyone knows _you’re _the cutest member of the group. Just ‘cause Bev has all the boys falling over her doesn’t mean you’re not a little bite-sized spaghetti snack!” And, before Eddie could stop him, Richie had leaned down and given him a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek.

A sound escaped Eddie, high-pitched and frantic. His hand flew to the spot.

Richie frowned. “Hey, Eds, you sure you put sunscreen on today? Your face is like, super burned.”

“It’s fine!” Eddie said, too loud. “My face isn’t burned, dipshit!”

“Are you sure? It’s super red.”

“I’m sure!” Eddie snapped. “I’m probably just having an allergic reaction to all the bullshit that comes out of your mouth.”

Richie shrugged. His lips tingled where they’d pressed briefly against Eddie’s cheek. “You love my bullshit. Are you sure you’re not burned? If you need more sunscreen, go bother Stan, because I didn’t bring any.”

“It’s fine,” Eddie repeated, and it was true; his cheeks didn’t seem as red. Now, Eddie just looked embarrassed.

“Well, come on,” Richie said, after a moment. He led them over to the shady side of the quarry, because Eddie always got pissy when he had a sunburn and there was no use in taking risks. Eddie stayed in the water, pushing away dead bugs as they floated towards him. Richie climbed up onto one of the rocks and into the warm summer air, his shirt sticking to his skin.

Somewhere in the trees, a cicada droned.

“I can’t believe summer is half-over,” Richie said, staring up at the cloudless sky. He propped his back against the rocks behind him and crossed his arms behind his head. “We’re gonna be juniors next year. _Upper classmen_, Eds.”

“They’ve got low standards, if they’re letting you in,” Eddie said, and grinned when Richie blew a raspberry in his direction.

“We’re basically going to be royalty,” Richie said. “Think I can hire a freshman to carry all my books and shit?”

“Probably,” Eddie said. His hair was sticking up in wet spikes around his head, messy where he had run his fingers through the side. “I bet the seniors raffle them off at the beginning of each semester.”

Richie barked a laugh.

Eddie flicked at the body of a drowned gnat, sending it arcing away from him in a glitter of droplets. “Is Bowers coming back?” he asked, and his voice was lower. He grimaced at the carcass of a bee that drifted to his left. “Stan told me about the restraining order.”

Anger rose in Richie’s chest, dimming the hot sunlight. The healing scars prickled across his back. He didn’t answer for a long moment, gazing up into the endless sky with dull eyes. “Yeah, I think he’s coming back,” he said at last. “Guess they didn’t have enough evidence to nail him too. I’m sure his daddy was a big help in getting his ass out of the fire.” He sat up and pried a loose rock from the quarry wall. He threw it as far as he could, and it sank below the surface of the water with a splash. 

“They’ve dropped the charges?” Eddie said, indignant.

Richie picked up another rock. “Bowers took a plea bargain,” he said. “Beat it down to community service.” He threw the rock, and it too disappeared into the water with a spray of bubbles. “Best community service he could do would be jamming a knife into an electrical outlet,” he muttered.

Eddie shooed away the dead bee and climbed up onto the rock beside Richie. “We’re not gonna let him near you,” he promised. His expression was fierce. He pressed his shoulder against Richie’s, and Richie leaned against him. “You’re off-limits for that shit-stain. I mean it. If he tries to come near you, I’m gonna break his knees with a baseball bat.”

Despite his soured mood, Richie felt himself smile. “That’d be a sight to see,” he teased. “First you gotta learn how to swing a bat, you twiggy shrimp.”

“You’re just a beanstalk, it’s not my fault everyone’s short to you,” Eddie said, prodding Richie in the ribs. “I mean it, though. I’m not— none of us are gonna let him near you.”

Richie ruffled Eddie’s wet hair. “I always thought my guardian angel would have more muscles,” he said, ignoring Eddie’s glower. “I guess I’ll take you instead. Besides, it’s only for a year, right? Then Bowers will be out of Derry High, assuming he doesn’t flunk again.”

“That’s a pretty big assumption,” Eddie muttered. “How big is the restraining order?”

“Three hundred feet. Officer Nell put in a request to get it enchanted, so once that comes through then Bowers won’t be able to get near me.”

Eddie’s eyes widened. “They got that approved? I didn’t even know you could do that with a restraining order!”

Richie allowed his smile to grow. “Yeah. I guess, since Officer Nell is retiring soon, he’s pulling all the strings he can. No use letting them go to waste.”

Eddie poked him again in the ribs. “Or he figures you’re worth it.”

Richie shrugged, and together they watched Bill and Mike wading over towards the shore, tired of investigating between the rocks. When Bill reached the others, he bent down and dumped a handful of water over Stan’s sleeping face. Stan bolted upright, swearing and disoriented, and made a grab for Bill while Beverly cackled in the background.

Richie sniggered, but stopped as he felt Eddie lean his head against Richie’s shoulder. “I’m glad we’re here,” Eddie said.

Richie sat still. Eddie’s hair was soft against his arm, and Richie could feel goosebumps rising up along his skin. As he breathed, he could feel the slight motion as Eddie’s head rose and fell along with it. Richie didn’t dare to move.

“Is it healing okay?” Eddie asked, apropos of nothing.

Richie raised an eyebrow. “The growth on my dick? It’s fine, thanks for asking. I’ve decided to name it—”

Eddie shoved him, gagging, and at once Richie missed the warm weight of him pressed against his side. “Beep beep, ugh,” Eddie groaned. “I meant your back, jeez. Has it been okay, since I took the butterfly bandages off?”

“Yeah.” Richie flexed his shoulders. The skin over his upper back was nearly healed — it didn’t twinge at the motion. The skin felt a bit tighter than it once had, but that was all.

Eddie glanced up at him, almost shyly. “Do you… do you mind if I take a look? Just to make sure?”

“I— uh.” Richie paused, unsure. “Yeah, I guess. If you want to.” He half-turned on the rock, so that his back was to Eddie, and forced the tension out of his shoulders. It was fine. It was Eddie. He’d already seen Richie’s back a billion times, when the bandages were still on and he insisted on checking for infection every day like an obsessive freak. 

Richie let out a slow breath as Eddie lifted the hem of his shirt with careful fingers. “They look good,” Eddie said quietly. There was a cool touch as Eddie traced a fingertip over the healing scars. “Almost all the scabs are gone.”

Richie sighed. “You can still read it, right?”

Eddie flattened his palm over the top of Richie’s spine as though to hide the letters from sight. A shiver ran the length of Richie’s spine. “Yeah,” Eddie admitted. “I can still read it.” He pulled Richie’s shirt back down and scooted around to sit next to him. “Richie, it’s—”

“It’s alright,” Richie interrupted. He smiled at Eddie’s disbelieving expression. “No, really,” he said. “It’s alright. There are worse things.”

He was telling the truth. He’d thought it would bother him, to have Eddie examine his back without bandages or bruises in the way. It hadn’t. What he didn’t say – what he couldn’t say – was that the weight of Eddie’s hand lingered between his shoulder blades, and that was far more distracting.

“It’s alright,” he repeated.

Eddie was looking at him with his deer-like eyes. In the light reflecting off the water, Richie could see flecks of gold and green amidst the brown. His sunburn seemed to have gotten worse again, because his cheeks were red under Richie’s gaze.

“Richie,” Eddie said. His eyes darted down, then back up again, nervous. “There’s, um. There’s something—”

He was interrupted by a shout from the shore.

“Hey!” Stan called. He waved his arms at them, and Eddie and Richie jerked apart.

“What?” Richie yelled back.

“You guys should come over here!” Stan called. “Bill found something he wants to show you!”

“Ugh. Jesus, fine!”

Richie turned to Eddie, who was picking at a scraggly patch of moss that clung to the rocks. “What’d you need, Eds?”

“Nothing!” Eddie said. He seemed oddly disappointed. “I just, um. I’ll ask you later, okay? I guess we should go see what they’re talking about.” He slid off the rock into the water.

Richie watched Eddie go, puzzled, until Stan shouted again and he climbed down from the rocks.

Eddie beat him to shore. He was whispering to Stan when Richie pulled himself up onto the sandy dirt. Bill, Bev, Mike, and Ben were a few yards away, crouched around something on the ground. Richie tried to peer past them to see what it was, but Bill’s and Ben’s shoulders were blocking it from view.

“What’s all this then?” he asked. His voice teetered on the edge of a British accent. “What’ve you young folk gotten for yourselves there?”

Eddie and Stan stepped closer to where the others squatted on the ground. Stan had his hand over his face, and Richie squinted at him, suspicious. “Stan, what the hell are you grinning about?”

Stan shook his head, pressing his fingers against his mouth.

Very faintly, Richie heard Bill whisper “three. Two. One.”

Bev, Mike, Ben, and Bill all rose to their feet, opening their circle to face Richie. Stan and Eddie tacked themselves onto the end of the line, and before Richie could take in the large, frosted cake that Bev was holding on a plate in front of her, all six of them burst into a loud, _very_ off-key rendition of _Happy Birthday_.

“What the fuck!” Richie shouted.

The harmony was cringe-worthy. Bill’s version was upbeat, almost a marching tune, while Stan had opted for a weird, slow mourning dirge that contrasted horrifically with the lyrics. Eddie and Mike had joined hands, singing in a high falsetto that must’ve deafened poor Ben, the only one who was attempting to follow the original tune. Bev wasn’t even trying for a rhythm, simply shouting the lyrics until her voice rang off the quarry walls. All six of them finished the song at different times, with Stan closing them out on a low, droning note that made his voice crack as though he was eleven all over again.

Richie couldn’t stop laughing. “What—” he managed, then paused as another fit of giggles overtook him. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s your birthday cake!” Bill told him, grinning and pleased.

“My birthday isn’t for two days, you dumb skanks!”

“We know,” Stan said smugly. “But we figured we’d get you early so it’d still be a surprise.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got something else in mind for the actual day,” Bev added. She held out the cake to him, where sixteen candles had been set into the thick frosting. “Are you gonna make a wish or what?”

“I— Jesus.” Richie shook his head. “You guys are the best, you know that?”

“We know,” Eddie said.

“The c-candles are melting!” Bill shouted.

Richie looked around their little circle. Ben and Mike were standing on either side of Beverly, their arms over her shoulders, grinning broadly. Ben’s nose was burned. Between them, Beverly’s copper hair gleamed like fire under the summer sun. Richie took them in, and a swell of emotion lodged in his throat. Maybe he hadn’t known them long, but he loved them already. Maybe that wasn’t surprising. Richie had always jumped into everything feet-first.

Beverly caught his eye and winked.

Bill was at one end of the line. The bruises that Hockstetter had given him were gone now; vanished as the months slipped from May to June to July. He wasn’t having so many nightmares, anymore. In the mornings, he and Richie would bike over to Angie’s together, as the sun lifted above the line of the Derry City Hall and birds twittered in the trees above the cold blacktop. If Richie hadn’t slept well, Bill would stop them at Costello’s Market and buy them both coffees. They would sit on a bench outside to sip their drinks, and together they would watch the traffic grow heavier as the sun rose. Sometimes, Richie would tell Bill about the dreams that had chased him awake. Other times, they would sit in silence, and Richie would lean against Bill’s strong side while the sky brightened.

Eddie stood across the circle from Bill. Since the beginning of summer, Eddie had surprised them all when his long-awaited growth spurt had finally hit. His legs poked coltishly from the holes in his shorts. Though he was nowhere near as tall as Richie or Bill, he’d had to throw out most of his closet since school had ended. Twice since, he’d gone with his mother up to Bangor to buy new clothes.

He met Richie’s eyes, and Richie felt something warm curl in his belly as Eddie smiled at him. The sun touched Eddie’s hair, turning the tips of his curls a pale, golden-blond.

_(I’ll ask you later, Eddie had said)_

_(Ask me what, Eds?)_

At the end of the line stood Stan. Stanley fucking Uris, with his yarmulke perched on his drying curls and his hands folded primly in front of him. He met Richie’s eyes with a smile. It was small, only a lift of his lips, but it was proud. So proud. Richie wanted to snap at him to knock it off before he did something stupid, like cry. Stan’s shoulders were starting to broaden, but there were a few years yet before puberty finished with him. He was going to be a handsome kid, once it was done.

“The candles, Richie!” Stan insisted.

Richie had to clear his throat. 

Maybe things weren’t perfect. Bowers was still out there, kept away by the enchantment that Officer Nell had ordered. Richie’s scar still rested on the skin over his heart, hidden below his clothes.

But life was so rarely perfect. As Richie looked around this circle of his friends, with the summer heat rising around them and his birthday candles burning down their stems, he realized that he didn’t much care. Had he ever thought he would be here? Two days before his sixteenth birthday, surrounded by these six idiots? He thought of Ben’s books, and the promise that Bev had given him. He thought of Stan’s words, steady and sure: _we’re going to find a way, okay? We’ll find something, and it’s going to work._

It wasn’t hard to believe him. They’d done harder things, after all.

Happiness lit him from the inside, frothy as champagne bubbles.

Richie took a breath, leaned forward, and blew out the candles.

~ End ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's the end, guys. For real this time. I... wow.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for everyone who stuck with me during this story. I did not expect this fic to get the love that it did, but I am so, so grateful to everyone who left kudos and shared their thoughts with me. This story sort of took on a life of it's own, but I'm happy that it did :)
> 
> I imagine that people might ask about a sequel or anything else that might follow from this story, so I'm going to answer it now instead of in the comments: Yes, my friends! Right now, I have ideas for 3 one-shots for this universe. One dealing with the curse and all the research these kids are doing, one to resolve a bit of the Richie/Eddie tension that cropped up in this story, and one with the gang about ten years down the road. Let me know if you guys are interested in any or all of these <3
> 
> Anyway. I hope you guys enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! I hope the ending payed off <3 (even though I know Arithese is probably going to track me down and murder me for not lifting the curse by the end). 
> 
> I love you all :)


End file.
